


Blue

by mousewriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Student!Sherlock, Teacher!John, Teacher!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousewriter/pseuds/mousewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in love with his english professor, John Watson. its a boarding school au!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first chapter of my first ever published fic, enjoy!

Chapter One

               _Six days left, shit._

               John would be at Eton then, teaching English to a horde of posh teenagers and he couldn’t calm his nerves.

               _They’ll eat me alive._

               In the meantime, however, John was at the pub a few blocks from his flat. His new colleagues had phoned him and insisted that they meet up, and as he sat and waited he realized he didn’t know what they looked like. _Shit._

               His nerves crept up on him, causing him to sweat a bit around the scalp and his leg was swathed in a dull ache. He clutched his cane for reassurance. _You can’t have a panic attack. Not here or now so STOP IT._

“John Watson?” John turned stiffly towards the speaker, his nerves switching gears, nervous curiosity replacing what was anxiety a few seconds ago.

               “Its Mike Stamford, we’ll be teaching together at Eton?” Mike framed his words as a question, as if he was still unsure if he had the right John Watson.

               “Stamford, yes. John Watson. Pleased to meet you.” They smiled and shook hands and exchanged platitudes, and John was slowly but surely calming down.  This was absurd, freaking out for nothing _._ _This isn’t Afghanistan,_ he told himself, _get a hold of yourself._

They sat down at the bar and ordered a round for the expected group, who showed up a minute later and John was set to smiling and shaking hands. They all seemed decent enough, not nearly as high brow as he’d thought they’d be. Before John knew it, he was completely relaxed around the new faces and his worries over Eton dwindled considerably.

               However, in his head was his own nagging voice that incessantly worried over how the students would be. _They’ll eat you alive, spit you out, and feed you to their hunting dogs._

               John drove these thoughts to silence with a large swig of beer.

*************************************************************************************

               “Oi! You!”

               John was rudely awakened by a very disgruntled cabbie, who held out his hand for… for what?

               “Wh-what?”

               The cabbie mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like ‘bloody drunks’ and ordered “Twenty quid for the fare and if you dare throw up its fifty so if I was you I’d get out now.”

               “Oh please I’m only a little tipsy.” Lamented John as he fished his wallet from his coat. “Here’s twenty.”

               John rise from the cab and stumbled a bit, which brought a laugh from the cabbie. “Tipsy, sure.”

               John ignored him, at the moment he was doing his best not to vomit. He managed to get inside his building and up to his flat before he felt the vomit rise in his esophagus. Somehow, he made it to the toilet before he choked up the evening’s undigested food.

               After the worst was over, he rested his head against the cold porcelain and cursed himself. _It’s hard enough stomaching food without you wasting the effort. Idiot._

John didn’t let on the nature of his PTSD to anyone, not even his therapist. She knew the broader points: night sweats, anxiety, the tremor in his left hand. Never the bulimia. He managed to keep that one to himself, for him alone to work on. He did not want to rely on others. _He_ was the one to be relied on; _he_ was the bloody doctor for Christ’s sake. Well, he was technically an English teacher now but still.

               Water. John needed water.

               He didn’t notice on his way to the kitchen that there were things missing from his sitting room. When he emerged with his water, he still hadn’t quite noticed until he pressed on the TV remote and nothing happened. His TV was gone. As was his computer.

               He did a sweep of his flat on high alert. _What if they’re still here?_ He retrieved his gun from the desk, already loaded. He turned off the safety and inserted his finger safely behind the trigger—he didn’t want to kill anyone and didn’t trust his inebriated reaction if he were to find someone hiding.

               No one inside. Relief blanketed his tense form, and the two sensations clashed oddly within him and left his breath a bit jagged.

               The lock was missing from the back window. Their exit? He looked out it and down towards the alley. One streetlamp lighted the brick path and rubbish bins but showed no thief. John was halfway back inside before he noticed the bulky electronics sitting atop his bins. _His_ bins.

               They broke in, took his stuff, and left it on his _bins._

               “What the…?” He was stunned for a moment before he reached for his mobile and called the police.

               An hour and a half later two officers inspected the area. John suspected they did it rather poorly, as they seemed rather dim.

               “Why did you call if nothing was taken?”

                His suspicions were confirmed. 

               “Well technically something _was_ taken—but the issue here is that despite the CCTV cameras in the street and the landlords own surveillance in the alley the thieves still got in here, and I want to know how and I want you to stop it from happening again.”

               “We’re not your personal security.”

               John clenched his fists and suppressed and eye roll. “ _Catch them._ Find out who they are and arrest them. They’re obviously good at what they do and they’ll do it again.”

               The officers gave them blank stares as if what John had just said wasn’t _obvious_. Idiots.

               “Sod this. Get out of my house. You’re all useless.” He all but pushed them down the stairs.

               “Well no need to get all bothered ‘bout it!”

               John closed his door and heard their footsteps fade down the single flight of stairs. Tired, and not remotely afraid of a repeat housebreak, he crawled into bed and slept, thankful that his still semi-drunk state would keep his subconscious at bay long enough to have uninterrupted, boring and dreamless sleep.

*************************************************************************************

               John awoke lazily at half past ten. He stayed rooted to his mattress, knowing that as soon as he got up the headache would announce itself and he’d be in full blown hangover. He reached for the aspirin on his night stand and dry swallowed two of the small pills. For good measure, he didn’t move until his alarm clock displayed eleven. If he was lucky, he would escape most of the pain before he even felt it. His medical education told him differently, but he still held on to the hope.

               Hope is hopeless. John was so badly affected by his pounding headache that he fell back into bed immediately after rising. A second attempt and a few teetering steps later, he was in his sitting room reflecting over last night’s events and cursing the eventual task of hooking up his TV and computer. He considered most technology a necessary evil.

               Nevertheless, some tea and toast and two hours later, he booted up his computer and searched for private detectives. Sometime during the hassle of his computer, he decided he really did want the burglars investigated, but loathed to deal with the police again.

               Some business ads highlighted yellow appeared first, and then the non-sanctioned small business results came after. He scrolled through them, and picked a small business with the masthead of _The East London Detective Bros._ Their website was boastful of some of the higher profile cases they solved, a bit too boastful John thought.

               Others thought the same. There were comments underneath the headlines of ‘Tec. Bros. Solve It!’ and a certain username _Whippin-it_ was vociferously demeaning the Bros. every investigative tactic. They went on to say that there was a far more intelligent detective who could solve any case in far less time than the Bros. or the police ever could. John’s interest was piqued. _Whippin-it_ gave a link to the aforementioned genius and John double clicked it, leading him to an expanse of deep blue pixels baring the masthead _The Science of Deduction._

A few minutes perusing the in depth analyses of solved cases and John was convinced. Tomorrow, John was going to go see a self titled ‘consulting detective’ by the name of Sherlock Holmes.

*************************************************************************************

“221B Baker Street, please.”

               The cabbie nodded his assent and John settled into the backseat. He had his phone out and he thumbed over it until _The Science of Deduction_ appeared on the screen. John thought it was a bit brash for this Sherlock Holmes person to put his address out on the internet, but then again the site wasn’t super popular. Then _again,_ Sherlock Holmes was the most posh name ever so maybe he was some sort of elitist socialite that John never heard about whose gated neighborhood kept out riff-raff.John pictured columns and mahogany and a wait staff.

               John was not expecting 221B to be above a café. It was just so incongruous to a name like Sherlock. A Mickey or a Smith was more suited to the place. Nevertheless, he rang the bell. A curt half second of buzzing sounded on the other side, and not long after an elderly woman in purple answered with a sweet smile and raised eyebrows. “Yes?”

               “Uh... yeah hello this is 221B right? I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?”

               “Oh he’s actually stepped out a few hours ago, should be back soon, you’re welcome to wait if you’d like.”

               “Ta, yes. John Watson.” He held out a hand.

               “Call me Mrs. Hudson. Tea?”

               “Yes, thank you.”

               Mrs. Hudson was filling the kettle when she half turned and asked “You’re not the police are you?”

               “Uh, no.”

               “Oh good. Sherlock’s not very attentive of the law and I imagine he’s stirred up a bit of trouble.”

               “Oh. Is he... uh... is he a criminal?”

               A deep baritone ( a very _sexy_ baritone, John thought) sounded from the door, “Well I would be a terrible one, with all the assistance I’ve given the police.” The man turned to John, and John noted that he was lean and tall. “If you would like to discuss your case I'll be upstairs in my flat. Mrs. Hudson will bring up the tea, wont you Mrs. Hudson?”

               “Yes Sherlock, and some biscuits?”

               John was about to say the biscuits weren’t necessary but Sherlock spoke first, “No, Mrs. Hudson. He’s just had some toast and jam at his flat. Not to mention the PTSD related eating disorder he’s fighting and the fact that that psychosomatic limp of his will slow us down enough without him wasting my time _eating.”_

               “How did you know about… all that?”

               A crinkly smile broke across the alabaster of Sherlock’s face. “I observed.” He then turned on one heel, coat billowing out from his calves, and headed towards the stairs, a “well are you coming?” called calmly over his shoulder.

               John was still a bit surprised at himself for thinking Sherlock’s voice _sexy,_ nevertheless, he tipped his head at Mrs. Hudson, who smiled at him, and he followed Sherlock up the stairs and into his flat. John immediately saw the complete disarray of the flat that was file boxes and half empty tea cups and what looked like samples of dirt before he registered that the place was actually quite charming. Busy Victorian wallpaper, some squashy chairs by the fireplace, drapes on the windows. His eyes swept the room and eventually landed on Sherlock, who was sitting at what John assumed, was a desk, and was opening a laptop. He noted the finer points of Sherlock’s features; pale grey—green?—eyes, dark curls, his upper lip a dramatic ‘M’, he was maybe twenty-two? John realized he was staring, and that Sherlock was staring back.

               “Well?” Sherlock said, scathingly.

               John bristled a bit at his tone, but then began his explanation. “My name’s John Watson. Two days ago someone broke into my flat and managed to escape the notice of the security cameras and I want to know how.”

               “So you don’t want back what they took?” Sherlock was on his computer, clearly bored.

               “Well, they left my computer and telly on my rubbish bins so no. I just don’t want a repeat occurrence; even if its someone else’s flat they break into.”

               “Hm. Interesting.”

               “What's interesting?”

               “Well first off well done, model citizen you are. Maybe it’s the stint in the army, or the medical degree, or even the teaching degree but you sure are conscious of others. Worried about their safety even. And yet, not so worried about yourself are you. You do realize you’ve just entered the flat of someone who knows more about you than your therapist does, someone you’ve never met before? Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I could be your crazed stalker for all you know and you’ve just waltzed in.”

               “Um, well, yea I suppose. How did you know about my breakfast and the uh... other stuff?”

               Sherlock smirked, and took a barely noticeable breath. “The toast was obvious; you’ve got crumbs on your shirt and jam in your stubble. You’ve got a tan but it doesn’t go past the wrists which suggests you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing, so for work then. Your hair and poise suggest military and the hyper cleanliness of your hands suggests doctor, so, army doctor. Obvious.” He closed his laptop. “You’ve got a nasty limp when you walk but you don’t immediately ask for a chair, as if you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. You are invalided however, or else you would still be over in—was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”

               John was startled at the direct question, “Uh, Afghanistan.”

               “Right, so, the bulimia. Bite shaped scars on your knuckles, dead giveaway. You’re not vain, that hideous jumper proves that, so what causes the eating disorder? Army doctor, recently invalided in traumatic circumstances, naturally you must have PTSD which is the only logical derivative for the bulimia unless there’s more?”

               “No I think you’ve got it. How did you know about the therapist?”

               “PTSD, a psychosomatic limp and bulimia. Of course you have a therapist.” Sherlock reopened his laptop and began typing.

               “That’s amazing.”

               Sherlock stopped typing and turned fully to John. “Really?”

               “Yeah. Spot on. Brilliant.”

               Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he said, “That’s not what people usually say.”

               “What do they say?”

               Sherlock paused a moment before saying, “Piss off.” John smiled. Sherlock resumed typing.

               Mrs. Hudson then entered the flat with a ‘yoo-hoo’ and a tea tray, and set it on the table.  John went to sit in the chair by the fire, and sipped at his tea while Sherlock finished typing. He then turned to John and announced “I’m taking your case.”

               “Good, yes. Should we discuss payment?”

               Sherlock dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand, “I don’t accept payment.”John stared at him, so Sherlock followed up with “This is really just a hobby.”

               “What do you do for work?”

               “This is my work.”

               “But you just said—“

               Sherlock cut him off. “We should go to your flat so I can gather data. Is now okay?”

               “Uh, yes.”

               Sherlock pulled on his coat and tied a blue scarf around his neck. John followed him out and was amazed at how quickly he hailed a cab. John gave the cabbie his address and settled into the backseat next to Sherlock, who was texting. John wanted to start a conversation but didn’t quite know how.

               He settled on, “How do you pay for an apartment with no income, if you don’t mind me asking.”

               Sherlock looked confused by the question. He tentatively offered, “I’m a detective.”

               “Yes, but you don’t accept payment.”

               “No, I don’t accept payment from you.”

               “Why?”

               “I’m not currently in need of funds.”

               John nodded his understanding, though he wished that the conversation could have lasted a bit longer. Sherlock was undeniably the most interesting person John had ever met; he wanted to pick his brain. No other topics occurred to him, however, and all too soon they arrived at Johns flat.

               Sherlock was… diligent, John supposed, when he was working on a case. He had strode in as if he lived in Johns flat and began looking at, well, _everything._ He did a walkthrough of the entire flat. Even the bathroom. He tested the window the burglars used and followed an invisible trail from the window to the TV, and then the computer, and then back to the window. He opened it and poked his head out, turning upwards towards the roof. He then rushed out of the apartment and up the stairs to the roof. John made to follow but Sherlock waved him off. He set to making tea instead.

               Sherlock reappeared moments later and inspected the window once more, then turned to john and smiled. “I know how they avoided the cameras.”

               “That’s fantastic.” John said. “Tea?”

               “No, thank you.” Sherlock took a small breath. “What’s interesting about this building is that it has considerably larger alleys than the others on this street. What isn’t interesting is that the CCTV cameras didn’t catch them—they only focus on street level. The burglars came from the roof, laid a board across the rooftops and walked over. Easy enough to pick the rooftop door but that wasn’t disturbed. No, they came in through the window.”

               “The window?”

               “Yes. There is a shoe print on the window sill, which has been pulled out of the wall a bit from the unprecedented weight set upon it. And then there’s the hook.”

               “The what?”

               “The hook. Well, there was a hook. Fresh holes above your window, closer to the roof, where the burglars fastened in a temporary hook to lift your things out of the window and down— _directly_ down—to your rubbish bins. Might have used a pulley but that doesn’t really matter.”

               “Brilliant.”

               “All I did was observe, John. It’s really not that hard.”

               “It's Amazing”

               “Do you realize you do that out loud?”

               “Sorry, I’ll, uh, stop.” John felt a blush coming on and looked away, giving the pretense that he was fixing tea.

               “No, its… fine.”

               John cleared  his throat. “So who was it then?”

               “Eton students. There’s raw meat under your couch cushions and a string tied around the handle of to bottom drawer in your bathroom, possibly to start some kind of silly string can or something else equally childish. Just pranks. Dull.”

               “Raw meat? You’re joking.” Sherlock lifted up a cushion to reveal a few cheap cuts of beef.

               “Wrapped up in plastic to delay the smell. Your couch will be fine, I think. It’s practical, I’ll give them that.” He sighed. “I would cut that string before you open the drawer. It’s obviously rigged to go off when the drawer is opened.” He sighed again, “Teenagers, being tediously juvenile. Are you sure you can contend with teaching the lot of them?”

John was using tongs to drop the meat into the trash. “Yeah I think I’ll manage.” John looked up at Sherlock and for a second couldn’t look away, caught up in his color changing eyes, but then realized something. “You never explained how you knew I was a teacher.” He said as he brought the bin back to the kitchen and washed his hands.

               Sherlock smiled, John was enamored with how… how _beautiful_ Sherlock looked when he smiled. He didn’t give an answer though. Instead he swept dramatically from the apartment, calling over his shoulder “I think you can figure that one out.”

               John walked out of his flat and into the hall, catching the briefest glimpse of Sherlock’s coat as he walked out of the building and hailed a cab.

               John spent the next few minutes looking himself over, wondering what tiny detail told Sherlock that he was a teacher. Unable to, he gave up. Hours later, around six, his mobile buzzed.

               _Unknown Number- I know which Eton students broke into your flat. - SH_

_Who was it? And how did you get my number?_

_I don’t think I should tell you. You need a fresh start at Eton and can’t keep a grudge against a student for a harmless prank. If there’s ever a repeat occurrence then it might be wise to inform the headmaster but as of now it is not. - SH_

_I guess that makes sense. You’ll tell me who it was if I ask though, right?_

_Yes. -SH_

_How did you get my number?_

_I have my resources. -SH_

               John barked a short laugh. Could he be more vague? John reached for the remote and some documentary about a military research plant played before John changed it to the news.

               _“Scotland Yard gave statements today about the three similar suicides that have happened in recent months. They are still unsure if these suicides are in fact murders or just coincidence. Here’s our Investigative Reporter, James Carlton, with the full story…”_

John had drifted off.

_It was cold. Beyond foggy London cold, this was Arctic Circle furthest planet from the sun cold._

_John was naked. He wanted clothes, and they appeared. He put them on. Still cold. Still wanting_ something…

_And then there was Sherlock, and he was cold too, but a different kind of cold. Like John could reach out and touch him, and suddenly there would be fire and warmth. So he did. His left hand traced Sherlock’s dramatic Cupids bow of a lip, and his right rested at the dip in his collarbone. There was warmth, but no fire. John wanted fire. John moved his hand from Sherlock’s lips to the nape of his neck, grazing the soft dark curls. He leaned in, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, which fit in his own as if they were made to be connected. Sherlock engulfed him in his arms and parted his lips, inviting John inside. There was so much fire, and light and color._

               And abruptly, everything was cold again.

               John was awake, in full sweat and chilly from the night air. It was four a.m., and he was shaking with the resonance of the dream. He was afraid, completely _petrified._ He was cautious that if he turned his head to the left, he would not see Sherlock’s pale irises staring back at him. The raw loneliness gripped him with abrupt force, and that terrified him more than any nightmare ever could.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

               Sherlock barely slept. This was habit. Sleeping was boring, extraneous, but it was annoyingly necessary so every thirty hours or so he conceded to his subconscious.

               He didn’t dream all that much either. Tonight, however, he dreamt of blue.

               Blue, deep and dark and _inviting_. Familiar. Home, welcome, warm. Blue is supposed to be cold and ice but this blue was balmy. This blue was cousin to a gas flame, but _richer._

               This blue was the ocean that claimed the sun, an intense fire lit underwater.

               _Why blue?_

               Of all the things to dream about, his subconscious chose _blue._ Why not some crazy surrealist misrepresentation of his daily life?Perhaps he was a bit more left brained than he thought. He rose from his bed and picked up his violin. He collapsed to his chair and strummed a lazy sonata as he thought. _Blue._

               He pretended not to notice when a man entered the flat, wearing a three piece suit and carrying an umbrella.

               “Sherlock, do please acknowledge my existence. It hurts me just _so_ deeply to be ignored.” The man spoke heavy with sarcasm, but with a resigned countenance, as if he was trying to be pleasant about it.

               Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. “Hello, _Mycroft.”_

               “I came to drop off the rent for Mrs. Hudson, but she informed me that _you_ have already paid it, in full, for the next year. I wonder, where might have you gotten the funds? You don’t come into your trust until your twenty first birthday.”

               “Mrs. Hudson owes me a favor.”

               “That’s quite a large favor.”

               Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at Mycroft. Neat and tailored as usual, nothing remotely interesting to deduce, nothing to use to distract Mycroft from their inevitable conversation. His diet was even successful. How _inconvenient._

               “I have an ulterior motive to coming here, as I am sure you already know.” Mycroft sighed and looked at his umbrella, “Eton starts the day after tomorrow. I know that you are eighteen and you have your own say in this but I urge you to attend your final year, it can only help you in the long run, with university, with careers…”

               “I already have a job”

               “You cannot invent your own occupation”

               “How do you think we have them in the first place, Mycroft?”

               Mycroft sighed. “Are you attending or not?”

               “Haven’t decided.” Sherlock watched as Mycroft pursed his lips in annoyance.

               “Mummy would be so pleased if you would.”

               Sherlock muttered something noncommittal and closed his eyes again, pondering the enigma of _blue._ Mycroft left within the minute.

               Bored of thinking about blue, he painted a room of his mind palace that exact color blue and opened his eyes. He pulled his laptop over to him and set about answering emails and updating his blog.

               _Welcome from Eton, spam, Dear Mr. Holmes could you please help…spam, hey its Lestrade and I was wondering if you could review a case…_

               Sherlock reached his already viewed emails and noticed one that he wanted to re-read from a week back. _A welcome to our new English teacher, Mr. John Wats…_

               Sherlock clicked the email and a picture of John dominated his screen. John was smiling with Headmaster Grand, his eyes rather bright… oh.

_Oh._

_Blue._

*************************************************************************************

               John had not gone back to sleep after his dream. He was used to laying awake after a nightmare, focusing on just _breathing_ until his sweat dried, and by then sleep was a lost cause. But after a _dream?_ A _sex_ dream? No, after those he’d might have had a wank and gone back to sleep. He did not, however, after this particular one. What did it mean to wake up after a sex dream and not have a hard-on?

               John concluded, having woken up boneless, that it was not a sex dream at all.

               It was just a dream, an unimportant irrational dream. So irrational, that he began to rationalize it.

               John had been alone for months. He had his sister Harry and all that but time with her was spent being her crutch, not the other way around.  (Harriet with her alcoholism and he with all his… stuff. Weren’t they a pair.) John was so alone that not three days ago he was on the verge of an anxiety attack at the prospect of meeting new people. And then just yesterday he spent most of his time in the company of Sherlock, who was an enigma all wrapped up in a quirkily handsome body. Sherlock was the epitome of interesting. After months of the same violent dreams, John’s subconscious was just latching on to all the new data. All the tiny thoughts about Sherlock’s eyes and mouth were tossed about in John’s inactive mind and when he slept they manifested into a hot minute of soft pornography. Like an old computer that’s been booted up after years of disuse, the fan spinning madly to cool the frenzied systems—such was John’s subconscious.

               It meant absolutely nothing.

Comfortable with his new understanding of his own mind, John got off the couch and made himself a breakfast of jam and toast and coffee. He watched telly while he ate. Still hungry, he fried four eggs and half a pack of bacon.

Food eaten to its entirety, he busied himself with packing for his move to Eton. But Sherlock was still on his mind, creeping into his thoughts while his hands were busy with the mundane task of folding.

*************************************************************************************

               Sherlock was in the blue room of his mind palace, a picture of John hanging on the wall.

He was brought back to his sitting room with the voice of Mrs. Hudson, “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made!” she said, sighing over the ruined state of his kitchen.

“Evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson fretted over his experiments, telling him it was his own fault if he ever got blown up, but Sherlock was only half listening. He fiddled with the pegs of his violin until they were perfectly tuned, and then he was picking lazily at the strings. Mrs. Hudson had long since left, and night had fallen.

Bored.

He texted Lestrade for a new case, hoping for something interesting. Lestrade never responded. Sherlock donned his coat and scarf and went out.

He wandered, deducing people, wishing he had someone to relay the tidbits of information to. He considered telling a passing couple that the blonde woman was cheating on the man, and that the man was in fact gay, but decided he really didn’t care. So many people around him with their mind-numbingly boring lives. Couldn’t one of them die and make it interesting?

He passed a café and estimated the number of customers that would be dead within the week. There were three; an old man with a lung condition whose oxygen had clearly been tampered with; a woman, probably a city, whose income funded a heroin addiction and mutilated the inside of her arms; and a middle aged man who was choking. A second later and he coughed up a chunk of whatever crap he had been eating, sparing his life and running the other patrons appetites. _And now there were two._

Sherlock moved on, but stopped in front of a pub. The smell of food reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in two days. The necessity of food was not lost on him, but his brain seemed to think otherwise.

Sherlock’s brain was an odd thing. All brains were always thinking, but Sherlock’s never let him stop to sleep or eat until his body managed to alert his brain that he was essentially dying. It wasn't that Sherlock wasn’t in control of his own brain, like he had a neurological disorder or anything. No, Sherlock just got carried away. He was more brain than body, but his body paid the price.

The pub was decent enough, the clientele somewhere around middle class and all servers were clean and in uniform. He sat at a secluded table by the front window and ordered tea and whatever the special was. He moved his eyes about the place, always glancing back at the door to work out the private lives of whoever came in, but mostly he looked out the window.

Sherlock was pleasantly (pleasantly?) surprised that John Watson was across the street, walking towards the pub, but not in. His limp was especially bad and he looked ghostly tired. Sherlock watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared. The waitress came with his food and he ate every last bite.

*************************************************************************************

John drove up on Saturday to get settled into Eton. His flat there was smaller than he was used to, however he was happy to find that it was on the ground floor. Sunday was spent meeting the rest of the staff in the morning and an official tour, and his evening was spent giving orientation to the new students.

He awoke Monday at six, his first class scheduled at eight. A quick shower and a long breakfast under his belt, he set off to the English hall, satisfied that he remembered where it was.

His students filed in, all lowerclassmen. They were as new to the school as he was and the hour spent in their presence had equal awkwardness on each side. He erased the white board while they filed out, his next class of upperclassmen taking their places with much more familiarity.

“Hello, Mr. Watson.” He knew that voice. John turned towards the speaker. He knew that face. What was Sherlock doing here? And why was he in an Eton uniform?

“...You’re a student?”

“Unfortunately.” Very unfortunate, John thought. Sherlock was speaking again. “If you haven’t pieced it together yet, this is how I knew that you were a teacher.”

“Oh, uh, yes of course.”

Sherlock nodded at him, and went to sit one row from the back by the window. The other students were still talking, but Sherlock was staring out the window.

John was caught up in a confused train of thought. Sherlock was too old to be a student, wasn’t he? John realized he didn’t actually know how old Sherlock was. Sherlock, who was no longer staring out the window in favor of staring at John. Their eyes locked for a half second.

John thought of his dream.

Sherlock thought of blue.

John realized he was supposed to be teaching and cleared his throat. The class settled down and John started in on the lesson. Sherlock was still staring, the pretense of paying attention was a convenient excuse. He was a little wary of how… enthralled he was at seeing John. This was not his character. People were _monotonous_. John was not. _John isn’t people, John is something… new._

“Hello class, I’m Mr. Watson. Welcome to your final year of English. We can all celebrate later but for now please take a copy of this book here. We will be having a discussion on…”

Sherlock was only half listening while he documented everything he saw about John.  John had gained a spot of weight in his face, but still maintained his handsome features. (Handsome?) John was writing on the board and the collar of his shirt was brushing against the soft skin of his jaw. (Soft?). Sherlock looked at Johns face and registered a charming smile blossoming as he taught. (Charming?)

Johns cane rested next to his desk and Sherlock wondered why he still bothered with it when John knew the limp was psychosomatic. John’s eyes were bright, but not fully open and surrounded by darkened skin. _Did he have a nightmare last night?_ John carried no stress in any of his features, completely at ease, in his element. _Perhaps not._

Sherlock was surprised at himself for paying so much attention in _school._ Then again, he wasn’t paying attention to the lesson. No, the lesson was definitely not what had his concentration. _John_ was the reason for his focus and that puzzled and frightened him all at once.

Sherlock slouched a bit in his seat, determined to revert back to his usual academic habits. John was still teaching. He looked so happy when he taught.

*************************************************************************************

The hour had gone by smoothly and John was rather pleased with himself. Clearly becoming an English teacher instead of suffering through clinic work suited John. John had managed to keep all questions he had about Sherlock at the back of his mind and resigned to ask them later, if given the chance.

While his classmates exited the room, Sherlock came up to John’s desk. John folded up his lesson plans and looked up at Sherlock. The fluorescent lights gave barely a shadow to Sherlock’s features, which should have made him stark and sick looking, but instead gave a beautiful glow to his alabaster skin, backlighting his eyes so that they radiated a light turquoise. The dark contrast with his Eton jacket only furthered the effect. Who was this iridescent creature before him?

“You think I’m too old to be a student.” Sherlock stated before John could ask anything.

“Yeah I thought you were at least twenty-two.” _Could you please be twenty-two?_

“Having my own flat would confuse, but I am eighteen.”

“Why don’t you live with your parents?” John was prying and he knew it, but he was finally having an actual conversation with Sherlock and damn it, he was going to capitalize on it.

“I’m of legal age, why shouldn’t I have my own flat?”

_Oh, of course._ “I suppose that makes sense. You should be off to your next class.” John realized only too late that he’d just ended the conversation he was so happy to have.

Sherlock smiled and nodded and John had the irrational urge to brush away the hair that had fallen on Sherlock’s face. But he resisted, _what is wrong with me?_ Sherlock walked out the door, supposedly to his next class but moments later John saw his distinct silhouette headed towards the dormitories. He thought he should report him, but never did. In his eyes, Sherlock was very much an adult and student rules seemed to not apply to him.

He had a free hour to do with what he wished, so he set himself to busywork, emails and the like. His mind wandered, and recent events prompted his thoughts in the direction of his dream.

It had been two days since the dream in question and he hadn’t thought of it all that much, but with the sudden reappearance of Sherlock he found he could recall exactly what had happened with perfect clarity. He still disregarded it as just a dream, but the romantic in him was ecstatic, planning encounters with Sherlock to _get things going._ John realized that he didn’t mind that he was thinking of ways to provoke a relationship with Sherlock, in fact he was encouraging them.

That Sherlock was his _student_ hadn’t quite occurred to him until he saw Sherlock reappear from the dormitories, Eton crest glaring at John from his lapel. The relationship that he had just been fantasizing about was strictly taboo, which made John angrier than he expected. This anger brought one clear and irrefutable thought to his mid:

_It was_ not _just a dream._

*************************************************************************************

               Sherlock had skipped his calculus class. It was just so dull, to sit there among his classmates and learn about a brand of math that he had already mastered when he was _twelve._ It was boring six years ago, and it was boring now. No one else seemed to think the subject easy, and he could _not_ be in there with that much stupid in the room.

               He elected to lie on his dorm room bed for the hour, his hands a steeple under his chin, legs crossed at the ankles and eyes closed. He wasn’t thinking of blue. He was thinking of pink.

               To the ordinary person, it wasn’t noticeable at first, but Sherlock noticed it immediately upon meeting John when he was John’s detective, not his student. He hadn’t paid it much attention then, but now it was plaguing his thoughts with incessant fervor.

               When in thought, or sometimes between sentences, John would lick his lips. It’s the smallest flash of pink muscle and then it’s gone. Sherlock had spent most of the class cataloguing the appearance of Johns tongue. Most times, it was a quick brush over the right side of John’s mouth, but every now and then it was the left side. Sherlock observed even further that  John would bite the section of lip that he had just licked, but only when it had been on the left. All together, John had essentially stuck out his tongue twenty three times in one hour.

               And all Sherlock could think was that this little quirk of Johns was absolutely _adorable._ Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes. He had never used that adjective in his life.

_Oh fantastic. I’m absolutely mad._

He needed a distraction. He texted Lestrade for a case. Lestrade was vastly unhelpful.

               _I’m not assisting your truancy Sherlock._

_I could solve half your current cases via text. Just send me something halfway interesting! -SH_

_Well anyhow there’s nothing going on so this conversation is pointless. Since I have your attention anyway, have you seen your brother lately? He’s not answering my texts._

  _As if I have any interest in my Mycroft’s life. And don’t bring me into your domestic idiocy it’s highly irritating.-SH_

Frustrated by, well, everything, Sherlock rose from his bed and left the dorm in favor of his moderately interesting chemistry class. However, no amount of dangerous chemicals could distract him from the fact that he’d seen John inside his English classroom, his azure eyes lighting up for another crop of students. Of course now that he thought about it, John’s eyes only really lit up when he was looking at Sherlock. _Blue._

He couldn’t be completely sure of it—he needed to experiment for definitive proof—but Sherlock thought that it was quite possible that John was dangerously attracted to him.

               But the real question was why the hell was Sherlock so _happy_ about that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 200+ hits in one day! i was inspired so i wrote more.  
> i couldnt resist the tiny bit of mystrade :)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The first month of school was uneventful, if one didn’t count John as an event, which he undoubtedly was.

               Sherlock had been doing experiments to determine if John was in fact attracted to him, as he had hypothesized. He was still inconclusive.

There are many chemical processes that explain attraction, but without a blood sample Sherlock was left to other devices to determine John’s feelings toward him. He started at the base of the relationship hierarchy and worked his way up.

                 _Acquaintances:_ the only criteria were that they knew each other by face and name, which they did.

               _Friends:_ It was a loose term for what they were; friendship implies time spent outside of occupations. This boiled down into many subsets.

               Firstly, eye contact. Friends were comfortable with eye contact when having a conversation. Sherlock had answered one question for each of five classes to prompt John to look at him directly. Their eye contact never waned, and Sherlock barely blinked, but that was in the classroom. Their academic setting was skewing his results, and that annoyed Sherlock endlessly. To obtain results that were not corrupted, Sherlock staged encounters with John to have a one on one  conversation outside of classroom walls, but only managed to talk to John once. Sherlock had opened with a question about an assignment, and then the subject flowed freely to other things, thankfully never the weather. John had maintained his eyes on Sherlock’s, and he on John’s, and they talked under the English hall’s awning for eleven minutes and forty-two seconds. This also supported the next basis of friendship, which was conversation.  However, Sherlock needed more data on that subset.

               He kept answering one question a class to see if any banter spurred from his response. It never did. To be sure of the miniscule data he had collected, he stayed after class once to see if they really couldn’t have an actual conversation, planning on being late to the calculus class he had decided to attend. He once again began with a question about the assignment, and in Johns answer he alluded to a book that Sherlock had read, that he had read and _liked._

“Oh, you’ve read Seamus Hartworth?” This was one of the few authors Sherlock liked. Most of his characters were deranged and deadly captivating, not to mention the enigmatic deaths.

               “Oh yeah, I’m addicted to his characters. And the plots are so intricate yet highly plausible. It’s fascinating.”

               They had talked about the works of Hartworth, eventually leading to other authors, and then other subjects came up, and then somehow Sherlock was talking about music.

               John had not claimed to know anything about classical music, which was a refreshing experience for Sherlock because John had just let him drone on without interruption. Sherlock could talk endlessly about his favorite composers and his violin. How one second the notes he coaxed from the strings could be dark and grounded, and then the next second he ran his bow over the littlest string and a sweet melody sang from the imperceptible movement. He talked about composing, how it helped him to think. He was in the middle of emulating the feeling he got as a note vibrated sweetly from the bows friction on the string, when he saw John’s eyes.

They were soft around the corners and lids, but his brow jutted up into two sharp points, like an ‘M’ cut down the center. There was something about the set of John's mouth, a kind of half smile that revealed his teeth and set a contrast to the whites of his eyes. Sherlock could see the entirety of John’s irises, so deep a blue he would have thought them black from a distance, except he was too close not to see the flecks of color. _Too_ close. Sherlock leaned back almost undetectably. What made him get so close?

               Sherlock glanced at the clock above the door. They had talked for nearly fifty minutes. He had said that he should be off to his chemistry class, now that it was almost over. They wouldn’t miss him.

               “I can write a note excusing you.”

               “No, its fine. My brother funds a lot of this place, I think I’m entitled to an elected free period once in a while.”

               “Sure.” John smiled. Sherlock hung a picture in his palace’s blue room.

               “Good day, John.”

               “ _Mr._ _Watson_.” John chided. “Good day, Sherlock.” John turned to his desk, and Sherlock had left. Sufficient data collected for _Conversation,_ Sherlock moved on to _Common Interest,_ realizing that his almost fifty minutes with John supported that division without any extra trials on Sherlock’s part.

               His experiment was almost over, but it didn’t reveal  anything about _Attraction_. Sherlock felt that he needed more data for _Common Interest._ And so in the weeks since then he had answered one question a class, hoping to spark any fact about John to be mentioned in passing.

               He had so much data on John, but each time he learned something new about him his blue room expanded, and Sherlock came to the bittersweet realization that he may never know everything about John Hamish Watson.

*************************************************************************************

John was grading essays in the staff lounge. It had been a month since term started, and he had set into a comfortable rhythm with his new environment. The students, however, still seemed to be stuck in vacation mode and hadn’t quite buckled down into academia. There were red marks all over their essays—easy grammar mistakes that could have been fixed with spell-check, but were still overlooked.

He was apprehensive of grading Sherlock’s essay. John couldn’t seem to separate his feelings for Sherlock from the student-teacher relationship they were supposed to have—John definitely showed favoritism, even though Sherlock was his least attentive student. Sherlock would sit in class, write sparse notes, and only seemed to look up when John wasn’t looking at him, or when answering a question. Each class, he raised his hand once and only once, never to ask a question but rather to answer them. His answers were always what John was looking for, and then some. The rare times Sherlock opened his mouth were John’s happiest moments, Sherlock’s intelligent insights into the topics were an absolute joy to witness. Beyond his intellect, Sherlock was the perfect student. He never disrupted class, or used his phone, and every assignment was always turned in on time and one hundred percent correct. John paid him small respects in class for being his best student, like never calling on him when his hand wasn’t raised, like he did the others.

John had grown to expect a lot from Sherlock in his essay. If Sherlock could be a pure genius in class, having only spoken a few sentences a day, imagine what he could do with _five thousand words_. Never had John been so happy to be a teacher.

John had reached Sherlock’s essay and never picked up his red pen while he read. Perfect grammar was to be expected, as was severe intellect. He expected a calculated approach to the irrational lives of the main characters, a psychological breakdown of why the fictional people did what they did. And that’s what he received, but it was more. It was _raw._ Sherlock was the smartest of the horde in person, but given a week to organize his thoughts, Sherlock was beyond insightful. He was beyond _human._ How can he _possibly_ be this good? He must have plagiarized, John thought. He looked the paper over. No, this was definitely a Sherlock original. Every sentence was laden with Sherlock’s tone, and John could not imagine anyone else phrasing their sentences like that.

John neatly wrote one hundred percent at the top and moved on to the next. They were awful before, but after Sherlock’s essay, they were downright idiotic. John realized he would definitely be caught playing favorites, so he cut them some slack. He didn’t grade on a curve, he needed to be objective.

Halfway through another essay, Mike Stamford walked in with two other teachers—John recalled that their names were Harvey Wright and Lily Chase. They all sat at John’s table and relaxed, exchanging hellos with John. John put away his work and joined in the conversation. Mostly they talked about weekend plans at the pub, and then they complained about the waning IQ of the students who were still adjusting, but John was too polite to speak bad about them.

“There’s a kid in my third period biology class, a first year, whose always asking questions that I have just answered in the notes. I’m always repeating myself, it’s so annoying. And he’s always breaking beakers!” Wright was exasperated sounding, as if this was the worst thing to have ever happened to him.

“Well at least you don’t have Sherlock Holmes. Always sighing as if everything is obvious. As if he’s mastered chemistry.” John looked up at Chase as she said this. Wasn’t Sherlock a brilliant student in all his classes?

“Well, Sherlock doesn’t seem so bad to me.” John said calmly. He was not expecting their reactions.

Stamford guffawed and said “John, are you having a laugh? You can’t be serious.” The others were also chuckling, and they nodded at Mike’s assumption.

“I’m not, no. He’s my best student.”

“How can he be, if he never shows up for class?” Mike asked, dubious.

“What are you talking about? He hasn’t missed a single hour.” John was confused.

“He hasn’t missed any of them at all?” John nodded. “Well that’s new.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sherlock was in my English course last year and he went to one class a month at the most. And you’re telling me he’s been in _every_ one of your classes?”

“Yes, he has. Is he a bad student or something?” As far as John knew, the only missteps of Sherlock’s had been skipping a class that first day, and then again two weeks ago when he’d stayed after and they had talked.

Chase laughed and said “John, last year he set fire to my lab coat.” Then Wright added “And just yesterday he was in world history with Jacobson and did his freakish trick with the… what does he call them? Deductions? Anyway he basically announced Jacobson was an adulterer. That kid is a piece of work.”

“What about academically?”

Mike answered “Oh, the boys a genius. He just doesn’t do any work. He aces the finals to keep from failing, and he’s been through about eight accusations of cheating, but that’s just it; he doesn’t cheat. Or at least no one has caught him at it.”

John was dumbfounded. The fire and deductions were definently something Sherlock would do, but the schoolwork? _That was not my Sherlock,_ he thought. “Does he show up in any class other than mine?”

“Chemistry, and that’s it.” Wright said.

 The bell sounded and he left Stamford and the others to go teach his remedial course. He limped towards his classroom, Sherlock once again consuming his thoughts, but for a very different reason.

******************************************************************************

The next day, John had just finished teaching Sherlock’s class, and the bell sounded. The students began shuffling out, Sherlock near the back.

“Not you, Mr. Holmes.” In class, Sherlock was Mr. Holmes, which was John’s way of addressing Sherlock without all the infatuation seeping into his voice as he pronounced those two syllables.

“Yes, Mr. Watson?”

“I just want to let you know that you are my top student.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Before Sherlock could leave, John said “But that’s not what I hear from the other teachers.”

“Oh?”

John hesitated. How should he phrase this? “Your past English teacher, Mr. Stamford, said that you never showed up for his class. I find that odd since you haven’t missed a single one of mine.”

“Is it wrong to alter my habits for a better academic career?”

“No, but your current teachers haven’t seen much of you either.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Their trivially _simplistic_ subjects bore me.”

“Then you should take advanced courses.”

“I _am_ in advanced courses.”

John didn’t have a response. They stared at each other for a short second that felt much longer.

“Well I would hate to see you neglect your other courses while acing mine effortlessly. You should show your teachers what you can do.” John said. Sherlock was maintaining eye contact, and he was doing that fluorescent light glowing thing again. _God, he’s gorgeous._

“Don’t worry, John.”

John was ecstatic to hear his own name pass between _those_ lips. “It's Mr. Watson.” He said, kicking himself internally because he just wanted to be _John._

_“John_.” Sherlock emphasized, smiled, and left.

And John spent the hour in comfortable silence, grading papers and replaying Sherlock saying his name over and over again in his head.

_Oh Christ,_ he thought, _I’m a bloody love struck fool._

John had gone straight back to his flat after his classes were done and shut himself inside. He tossed his briefcase on the couch and rubbed his eyes. He was so _tired_ , he hadn’t slept at all last night.

He had had a nightmare, the first once since… since two days before he met Sherlock. He had awoken in a cold sweat, frantically trying to calm himself down. The whole experience was unwanted and familiar all at once, and he waited through the pounding of his heart until he was back to normal. He had waited longer than he usually did, because this particular nightmare was about more than just Afghanistan. And it wasn’t about _him._

His subconscious had played him a few scenes nearly identical to his real life in the army. More specifically, his life in battle. His injury came about with the death of his platoon and he, the lone survivor, had been lying undetected amongst the dead, a bullet imbedded in his left shoulder.

When the body has experienced a great deal of trauma, it begins a chemical process to deaden the nerves and give the body a chance for flight, since fight had not been successful. It does not lessen the fear.

_Please God let me live._

After the gunfire had ceased, he was carried off to safety by a stranger. In real life, he never knew the identity of that man, but in the dream, his savior was Sherlock. The dream slowly became a fully fledged nightmare as Sherlock was given the same fate at the nameless man. He had just stowed John securely among the rocks and ran back out into the desert when a mine exploded under his running feet and he was ripped apart, reduced to a cloud of dust. A sizeable chunk of Sherlock’s pale body landed with a forceful thud a yard from Johns head. John convulsed, the violent thrashing of his body re-awakening the deadened nerves in his shoulder, bringing on a pain that was second only to having lost Sherlock forever.

In the very early hours of the morning John was sitting up in bed and was running through his calming process and it _wasn’t fucking working._ He was crying, sobbing. His voice was hoarse; he may have cried out. It was so hard to slow his heart rate when his lungs were moving so fast, as if they were manually pumping his heart, forcing it to keep tempo. John had held his breath, forcing his lungs to rest so as to give his heart a chance. Sweat glued his clothes to his skin, and the cool night air gave him gooseflesh. His body was calmed, but his mind was not. The bed was so saturated with sweat he had thought he might have wet himself, but there was no urine smell. Nevertheless, he wanted to wash his sheets. John was still crying thick, warm tears that fell off his chin and onto his forearms.

He had sat there for a while, and eventually his eyes stopped dropping tears. He got out of bed and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were red but not swollen. He spent a long time eating breakfast, but puked it all up anyway. He hadn’t done _that_ in a month either.

Hating himself for ruining his progress and his sheets, he limped into his first class in the worst mood he had ever been in.

His day was substantially improved by the appearance of Sherlock. A very much alive Sherlock who had said Johns name in such an alluring way that it was all John could do to stay behind his desk. All he wanted to do with Sherlock—the so blissfully _alive_ Sherlock—was hold and kiss him, to have definitive and physical proof that Sherlock was genuinely _there._

*************************************************************************************

               Ever since his talk with John about his academics, Sherlock had not missed a class of any subject. He didn’t want to disappoint John for some irrational reason. Maybe because this was what was expected of friendship? To make the other happy? But he and John weren’t friends, they were… familiar. That was it. To make himself happy, however, he only participated in class by taking tests, never the tedious worksheets and bookwork. Still, this was a lot of effort on his part. What had John done for him?

               Sherlock had walked into John’s class on the cusp of that thought, saw John smile at him, and thought, _that’s what he does for me._ That startled Sherlock. _Absurd._

John never mentioned Sherlock’s increase in attendance, and that annoyed him. _What are you doing this for again?_ John unconsciously licked his lips and bit. _Oh, that._

Later, he was doing his chemistry homework in his dorm when boredom hit him full force. It was past curfew, but he went out anyway, his long dark coat camouflaging him as he moved through the dark.

He was walking past the teachers dorms, daring one of them to catch him, but nearly all of the lights were out. He passed Johns building. Johns flat was lit up like the first star of  the night. He picked the front door’s lock, careful to not make any noise, and slipped inside. He knocked on John’s door.

John answered in his pajamas, an old army t-shirt falling lazily over plain gray sweats, a plaid red dressing gown ending just above his calves. His hair was ruffled, as if he had just been sleeping, but his eyes were alert and awake.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here? Its past curfew!” John spoke in hushed tones, and his eyes became tense with alarm, his mouth open slightly.

“Is it? Hadn’t noticed. Just went out for a stroll.”Sherlock was being so flippant about breaking the rules. John found that he was kind of turned on by it. Sherlock was a rebel who truly did not care and that was just so… _hot._ John wanted to peel back Sherlock’s indifference and _make_ him care.

“Would you like to come inside?” Sherlock was already inside the door before John realized the double entendre. John didn’t move as Sherlock walked by and they were much too close, and John thought that if he could just lean in he could _know._ He could know what it was like to make alabaster melt.

But Sherlock had kept walking, and he went to stand between the coffee table and the sofa, not sitting down, but rather observing his surroundings. John closed the door and walked to the other side of the table. Sherlock was staring at him.

“You haven’t commented on my improved attendance.”

John was a bit startled by his sudden statement, but quickly recovered and told Sherlock the truth, “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“Jinx’s do not exist. Anyhow, I’m sure you approve.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Good.” _Good?_

They stood in silence for a breath before Sherlock spoke again. “Do you consider us friends, John?” John saw how vulnerable Sherlock looked as he said this, and hurried to answer so to not discourage him.

“I suppose so, yeah.” John was pleased and shocked to find that that was the truth. They _were_ friends.

“Good. That’s…good.”

_Good._ Like johns name had earlier that day, the word ‘good’ spoken by Sherlock played over and over in John’s brain. Sherlock’s baritone seeped sex into Johns brain and colored his thoughts with want _._ _Good_. How does he _do_ that? Shit. John was not a savage, he could control his libido.

               At the moment, however, he felt out of control. Like he should be clutching Sherlock by his lapels and snogging the life out of him. He unconsciously leaned forward. Sherlock was very good with eye contact.

               On the other side of the coffee table, Sherlock was calculating. _Blue._ The lights were different in John’s flat, softer, yellower. Under this light, John’s eyes had a bit of yellow around his pupils. _That’s new._ Sherlock wanted to get closer, to see the bottom of the ocean in John’s eyes. He noted that John seemed to be leaning towards him, and that his pupils were beginning to dilate. _Strange,_ thought Sherlock, _is John high?_

Sherlock’s eyes swept over Johns body looking for and clue that he was an addict. No red in his eyes, teeth were near immaculate, fingernails free of any residue. He would have to see the crook of his elbow to be completely sure. _If not high, then what?_

Sherlock looked up to Johns eyes, caught a glimpse of John licking his lips before returning back to his irises.

               _Blue._

_OH._

“I have another motive for coming here tonight.”Sherlock tooled his facial expression to not alarm John, because if his face betrayed his emotions he would surely look absolutely _mad._

               “I didn’t know you came here intentionally?”

               “Truthfully, I didn’t. But now that I am here I might as well. I wanted to test a hypothesis of mine.”

               “Oh, uh, what hypothesis?”

               Sherlock took a deep breath before he spoke, “I need you not to move, alright?”

               “Okay…” John was honestly puzzled. _What was going on?_

Sherlock moved around the table and stood in front of John. He was so close, John could feel his breath blow against his hair. Sherlock looked pensive, as if weighing his options. _What options?_

John was still confused when Sherlock took the nape of John’s neck in his hand, leaned in, and kissed him, so tenderly that John wondered if the alabaster before him had melted all on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three chapters in three days. sounds a bit rushed right? i had had these three chapters saved on my computer and ive been ruthlessly picking over them and publishing them and now i need to write more content.  
> i will definitely write more content.
> 
> (they kissed o my god im fangirling like crazy)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

               _Sherlock Holmes is kissing me, and I’m just standing here._

               John was gripped with anxiety. _Student and professor do not kiss._ But he had wanted this. _Sod the rules._ Would Sherlock pull away when he noticed the lack of response? _Oh, Christ, don’t pull away._ Sherlock decreased pressure ever so slightly. _I need to do something._  

               _Should I stop this?_

John pulled back and hated himself for it. Sherlock eyes had tensed up. John could see the sting of rejection in the stiff set of his mouth. _That mouth was just on mine._

“Sorry, that was inappropriate.” Sherlock gave a lackluster smirk, trying to remain his standoffish self, and failing entirely. _But Sherlock never failed at anything._ Sherlock was purposefully not looking at John, and John had his eyes fixed on him, organizing his thoughts and waiting for him to look. _I want to kiss you back._  He wanted Sherlock to know that he wanted to kiss him, but he was deciding if it was better to _say_ it or _show_ it.

Before John could say or do anything, Sherlock was out of his flat, leaving the door open. John acted on auto pilot and went to close it. _I want to fix this how do I fix this. Where is Sherlock I need Sherlock._ He looked out into the hallway, and Sherlock was right there, five yards from his door.He had his back against the wall. He had his hands in his pockets, staring at the opposite wall. He pulled his right hand from his coat, and pushed a hand through his hair revealing the pale skin of his forehead. His eyes were closed, his body drawn tight into itself, and he was so very _vulnerable._

               _I did this to him. I hate myself._

               John did not think about school policy or the fact that they were in a public hallway past curfew. He wasn’t thinking about anything except Sherlock’s happiness and Sherlock’s current unhappiness because of _him._ John wanted Sherlock to be happy, and there was _nothing_ John wouldn’t do to see Sherlock smile again. He crossed their separation in eight steps.

               Sherlock hadn’t noticed him, or at least he pretended not to. John stood in front of Sherlock, looking up at him.

               “Sherlock.” John packed all the heart he could into his voice. _I want to kiss you back_.

               He looked up. There was moisture in his eyes, but he wasn’t crying. He emanated pure emotion, and John thought that there was nothing more beautiful, and nothing more heartbreaking.

               _I can make him smile again._

“John, I—“ Sherlock began. John had been leaning in, working up to kissing him. But Sherlock suddenly  pushed off of the wall, striding fast towards the exit.

“Sherlock, wait!” John called after him in a hushed yell. John knew that he could hear, but he kept walking. He was outside before John moved to go after him. By the time John was outside, Sherlock had disappeared. John thought he might have seen the flap of a dark coat in the corner of his eye, but when he looked, no one was there.

*************************************************************************************

               His hypothesis was wrong. John did not want him. Sherlock did not know what he was feeling. Like…like no one needed him at all anymore? Like he wasn’t necessary?

               _Rejection. Its rejection._

He hadn’t walked far from Johns building, just to the cover of the shadows. He had seen John come out, not see him, run a hand through his hair and go back inside. Sherlock had stayed outside for the next twenty minutes, until Johns light had gone out. He had managed to sneak back into his dorm undetected, and he had lain on his bed for a long time, contemplating.

               _A scientist does not feel rejection when their hypothesis is proven wrong. He may be disappointed, but he will record data and give conclusion, and he will not personally attach himself to the subject._

Sherlock hadn’t kissed many people. He found it boring. It was just an extraneous physical display that only irrational idiots indulged in. His actions that night had been for his experiment—how would he know for sure that John was attracted to him if there was no physical aspect?

               So Sherlock had kissed him. Simple enough, connect one mouth to another.

               But there was warmth in John’s lips. The moment Sherlock had felt them beneath his own, he was different. Starting with his mouth, every nerve in his body felt as if it had turned over, exposing a soft underside that was just so sensitive to everything around them. He had not anticipated this, that _he_ would be affected. Then again, he had inserted himself as an independent variable in his own experiment, so maybe he should have seen this coming. What he had expected, however, was for John to react carelessly, wildly, passionately. To take Sherlock in his arms and _kiss him back_. Ignore the rules. Sherlock wanted his hypothesis to be _right_. But it was more than that. He had never before felt so strongly about an outcome of an experiment; he always remained detached from his charge, never more than pleased if his base assumption had been correct. Now, he was emotional about it. He wanted John to kiss him back for his own desires, not for science. Sherlock had wanted John to want him the way he suddenly realized he wanted John.

               But he hadn’t, and Sherlock felt so _unwanted._

_I am being irrational. Curse John for making me this way._

He was going to leave Eton. No, he should stay and John should go. _But teaching makes John happy._ He hated school anyway. _Leaving would make John sad._ John didn’t want Sherlock! _He’s the one who encouraged you to do better in school, of course he cares!_

               Well, he wasn’t going to classes. _That’s counterproductive._

Why, after everything that had happened, did Sherlock still want to please John?

               _I hate John for making me this way._

_*************************************************************************************_

               John was surprised to see Sherlock in class the next day. Sherlock could see that clearly in his expression. That flash of shock that had crossed his face melted into a warm smile. A hesitant smile, like John was testing the air around Sherlock, as if he might spontaneously combust. Sherlock resented that John thought he was going to explode, and he regretted coming at all. He supposed he just didn’t want to break his streak of good attendance, but that was absurd. John’s sheepish smile became a fully fledged grin then, and Sherlock realized exactly why he had decided to come. _Wait, I came here to see Johns smile? I’ve gone completely mad._ Sherlock had sat down in an ungraceful plop, slouching down until he was barely on his seat. He took out his notebook for the pretense of learning.

_Oh, Johns teaching. I should take notes. Grammar? I don’t need to take notes._

_Johns looking at me. Look out the window. It’s raining. Boring,_

_Johns not looking at me. He’s talking. Look at me._

John, as if reading Sherlock’s thoughts, looked at him. There was something _expectant_ about his expression, and Sherlock realized he was waiting for an answer.

               _Don’t answer. I’m not going to answer._ Sherlock looked out the window again, keeping John in his peripheral.

John gave up and moved his eyes from Sherlock and found someone else to supply an answer, looking a little disappointed. Sherlock did not like John to look disappointed. He stared at his desk for the remainder of the class.

               “I need someone to pass out these papers. Sherlock, would you mind?”

               _Yes I would._ “Not at all.” That was technically an answer. _Damn it._

               He looked at every paper for names before he handed them over. Sherlock already knew that he was surrounded by idiots, but it was always fun to have definite proof—most of the red-lettered grades fell somewhere between sixty and eighty percent. He already knew his own marks, one hundred percent. Honestly how hard could this class possibly be? They were all English here, weren’t they?

Finished, he took his own paper back to his desk whilst the others shared joy over their sub-par grades that were apparently an improvement. He flipped through the pages, noting John’s haphazard cursive every few paragraphs, praising Sherlock on another job well done. He turned to the last page, and there, stuck right in the center, was a blue post-it note brandishing Johns scrawl.

               _See me after class?_

A statement, a command— _see me after class—_ but with a question mark tagged on. John wanted Sherlock to stay, but respected Sherlock’s decision on whether _he_ wanted to.

               _Such a bloody gentleman._

Sherlock glanced up at John, who was staring at him. His brow was raised in those two sharp points and his lip was curled in a bit, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. Questioning. Hoping.

               Sherlock had waited until the rest of the class had cleared out, deliberately packing his things slowly to give a reason for his delay. None of his classmates noticed him anyway, per usual. He walked up to John’s desk and said in the most casual tone he could muster, “Yes, Mr. Watson?”

               “John.” John smiled. “Please call me John.”

               “I would really rather not.”

               “You have before.”

               “Well that was before… events.”

               “Events?” There was still a faint smile on John’s lips. He was smiling about the _events_ , or at least Sherlock’s calling them that.

               Sherlock was getting impatient. “Was there something you wanted?” he packed derision into every word.

               “Not really, no.”

               “Then why summon me.” _Summon me?_ God, was he in a period drama or something?

               “I wanted to talk to you. About… _events.”_ John smiled as he said this. _Stop smiling. I am not responsible for my actions if you keep smiling._

 _“_ I would really rather not.” Sherlock repeated and continued, “The… events were an experiment. To see if you were… attracted to me.” _I sound so unsure of myself._

               “Oh, um, any conclusions?”

               Sherlock did not respond. He was out the door before John said ‘conclusions’.

              

               For the first time in weeks, Sherlock skipped calculus. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He hated the confines of the dorm, but he loathed getting caught—that would be proof of his bad streak returning. He didn’t want John to think less of him.

               _Damn it, John._

So he sat by a tree. A decent distance from campus, few windows facing him, no one to call him out on his truancy.

               He checked his blog. _No cases._ Emails. _No cases._ He texted Lestrade, who never texted back.

               _I need a distraction. I need a cigarette—_ he thought of Dr. John Watson, who frowned on such unhealthy things— _no, I need a nicotine patch._

_I need John._

But he didn’t want to move. He did not want to seek out nicotine or distractions and he was determined to avoid John forever. He just wanted to sit there, propped up against the world’s most uncomfortable tree.

               He closed his eyes and thought about anything but John and nicotine. He was not successful.

               He opened his eyes. Night had begun its descent—he had been sitting there for seven hours. Everyone was back at their dorms. But he was not alone.

               There was a figure walking towards him, whose limp was a dead giveaway. Not to mention the ridiculous jumper he was wearing was a bright white spot in the near-moonlight. _Those jumpers._ Was there anything John did that wasn’t adorable?

               Sherlock brought his knees up, stirring up his blood and surviving through extreme pins and needles. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin atop his crossed forearms. He stared—no, he _glared_ at John as he ambled towards him. He would not be so exposed anymore. He would be strong in the face of the crippling force of John Watson.

               John was in front of him then, crouching down to eye level. “Evening, Sherlock.” Sherlock made no noise, and was staring at the bridge of Johns nose. He would not look into his eyes, but he would give the allusion.

               “Sherlock, could you look at me please?”

               “I am looking at you.”

               “No, you’re looking at my nose.”

               Sherlock steeled himself, and refocused on John’s eyes. He tried not to catalogue how they looked in the darkening light, but at the same moment twelve new pictures hung themselves in the blue room. _Damn it._

“Do you want something?”

               “I want to apologize.”

               That threw Sherlock, “For what?”

               John took a deep breath, “For being so obvious about how I felt about you. And then rejecting you when that was exactly the opposite of what I had wanted to do. I fear I may have skewed the results of your experiment.” HE gave a shaky laugh.

               “ _What?_ ” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper. John smiled.

               “I need you not to move, alright?” Sherlock had heard those words before. No, he had said those words before. _I said those exact words before I…with John…_

_Oh._

John had leaned in then, and kissed him. Just one solitary peck, a brief connection. John pulled away, and Sherlock had leaned forward, following him, wanting more. A small smile turned up the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. _How can he make me so happy in just two seconds?_

John rose and held out his hand, Sherlock took it, and stood up. John let go of his hand.

               “You need time to think.” _I do not need time to think. John is giving me time anyway. I will accept anything John gives me._ Sherlock nodded. John picked up his cane and walked away. His limp wasn’t actually that bad.

*************************************************************************************              

               John had just opened his buildings door when he felt a hand in his. It was Sherlock.

               John turned to him and smiled. “You’re supposed to be thinking.”

               “I already did.” He smiled. Johns smile widened.

John led them back to his flat, the warm pressure of Sherlock’s hand in his making him smile like an idiot. John closed the door, his hand still encasing Sherlock’s. He used that to his advantage, pulling Sherlock towards him and kissing him slowly. Johns hand left Sherlock’s, in favor of wrapping itself around Sherlock’s shoulders, John's free hand cupping his face. Sherlock had his arms under johns, snaking around his back. The slow, tender kisses evolved, becoming passionate and fast. John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath in his mouth, and it tasted sweet. _This ethereal creature_ , John thought, _wants_ me.

               “This is—so reckless—but—I don’t— care.”John said between kisses.

               “Just the—response I had hoped.” Sherlock replied in the same way. He was breathless, each breath was ragged, and John could only think one word; _Gorgeous. So bloody gorgeous._

They had moved to the couch. How did they get to the couch? John had Sherlock pinned underneath him, and thought that it was too much too fast. Sherlock apparently did not think so, for he had curled his leg around Johns and was feverishly sucking on John's lower lip. John got his hand around the base of Sherlock’s neck and angled his head up to nip at his jaw line.

               Sherlock took the brief freedom of his mouth to say “You should know that I don’t do this often.”

               John looked up at him, both eyebrows up in speculation.

               “I didn’t say you should stop.” John smiled and returned to Sherlock’s neck. He reached down to hitch Sherlock’s other leg around him, and he settled into the cradle of Sherlock's hips. He moved back up to Sherlock’s mouth, his entire body shifting, and John could barely control himself with all of the _contact_. John was half erect. He wanted to do more, so much more, but he wasn’t sure what Sherlock wanted. He unwillingly pulled back.

               He prompted Sherlock, “We should…slow down?”. Sherlock nodded stiffly, as if he wanted what John wanted, to go _farther._ But he nodded all the same, becoming rational again. They sat up on opposite ends of the couch, their legs shared the middle cushion, _almost_ touching. John could feel his heart racing, and never before had he thought the frantic pounding of his heart to be so…fantastic.  _How does Sherlock do that?_

               “I need to be back to my dorm within the hour. The housemaster will be by to check on me.”

               “Yes you should g—“

               Sherlock interrupted him, “I don’t want to go.”

               John took in a ragged breath. “I don’t want you to go.”

               “We have to talk about… this. Us.” John liked the way he said _us._

 _“_ Yes…”

               “I need to go.” _Why was every moment with Sherlock always so_ _short?_

               John nodded. Sherlock rose lithely from the couch, John’s eyes followed his ascent. Sherlock put both of his hands on Johns shoulders, as if holding him there, and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. And then he left, shutting the door behind him. John could still taste Sherlock’s breath, but without Sherlock there with him, it tasted bittersweet.

*************************************************************************************

               Sherlock wanted to talk about ‘us’, but before that could happen, they had a class.

               Sherlock had walked in and smiled warmly at John. John had smiled back. _I have kissed that man._ How could John possibly focus on class when Sherlock was three yards away, looking so god damn irresistible?

               John cleared his throat, and the class settled down. “I’ve decided to be nice to you lot today. Your recent scores are an obvious example of your disregard for your assignments. If any of you have actually read the book then I’ll eat my cane.” There was nervous laughter. “So, to be nice, I’m giving you the hour to catch up on your reading. Don’t make me regret it.”

               Sherlock had of course read the book. But he opened the novel anyway and pretended to read. The ruse was boring, however, and he couldn’t stop peeking up at John, who was sorting through papers on his desk. John glanced up and caught Sherlock’s eye, a faint smile and blush flashing across his face, and quickly looked back down. This happened multiple times.

               Sherlock abandoned the book for his calculus homework, but that was finished all too quickly. He looked up at John, who was rifling through a drawer in his desk. Fifteen minutes left of class. He reorganized his mind palace, the blue room going untouched.

               The bell rang. Sherlock stayed behind. John was standing behind his desk with his arms crossed.

               “I’m coming to your flat later.”

               “Okay.” John was smiling. Sherlock glanced at the door to make sure the blind on the small window there was pulled, and then over to the larger window to make sure no one was outside. The coast was clear.

               Sherlock walked around the desk and kissed john ever so slightly. John responded by pulling at his waist to get him closer. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders. He didn’t know how much he had missed John being this close to him until that moment. Sherlock really didn’t mind how codependent he was being.

               He loathed to do it, but Sherlock pulled away. “I have to get to calculus.” John moaned a ‘no’. “Well I skipped yesterday so I have some make up work to do.”

               “Yesterday.” John smiled, and his eyes were bright but relaxed. “I think I liked you better yesterday.”

               “Hm. Too bad.” Sherlock smiled, planted one small kiss on Johns mouth, and left.

               Calculus had no John in it. Nor did chemistry, or world history. The rest of Sherlock’s day was completely devoid of John Watson and that annoyed Sherlock more than anything. But he remembered that he would be seeing John later, and he couldn’t quite muster up enough of a bad mood to sulk any longer. How could John make him this happy? How could anyone possibly have that affect on him?

               Sherlock thought back to when they first met, on that ridiculously boring case he had solved for John. He had told John his deductions, forced John’s private life out into the open and examined it, in such a way that most would call rude. But John had complimented him. Brilliant. Amazing. Fantastic. He thought Sherlock was all of those things, whereas others would be hacked off. _John thought I was wonderful after only knowing me for an hour, and I’ve just now thought the same about him. John liked me as a person after_ one hour _. John is the brilliant one._

               Sherlock had never felt love before. He didn’t know that that was what he was feeling after this revelation about John, and he wrote it off as infatuation.

               At night, Sherlock snuck out of his dorm and into Johns building. He knocked on John’s door. John had opened the door and smiled, so wide that Sherlock thought the width impossible. He was infatuated, yes. But there was more. Sherlock had one lone thought, a sudden realization that frightened and comforted him simultaneously.

               _I think I love this man._

               John had been much like Sherlock that day, anticipating their eventual meeting in a blissful stupor. And then Sherlock was at his door, and everything was so _charged_.

               John had thought about what he would say to Sherlock with great care. But when he finally Sherlock, the words had just come out. “I want to be with you. I don’t care what we label it and I care even less about what the school has to say about it.  I just want you.”

               “Good.” Sherlock had entered the flat then, gathering John in his arms and snogging him with ruthless aggression. This is where he wanted to be. With John. They could be doing nothing for all he cared, he just wanted to be in his company. _Irrational._ He looked into John’s eyes, living sapphires.

_I am content with being irrational._


	5. Chapter 5

“John, you should know that I don’t do this often.”

               John hated to do anything with his mouth other than kiss Sherlock, but he paused to say, “You’ve said this before.” John went back to kissing.

               After a minute, Sherlock pried him off. John gave a pout, “Why are we stopping?”He said.

               “Because I don’t think you quite understand the weight of what I’ve just said.” _Because I think I love you and I want you to pay attention._

               John sat back into the couch. “Okay. Make me understand.”

               Sherlock hesitated. As systematic as he usually was, there was still the apprehension and embarrassment of sharing details of past lovers with new ones. Sherlock steeled himself and said, “You must not think me as clinical, as if every moment with you is still an experiment. My experiment is over, now it’s just us.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “But before you, I had wondered about sex. I tried it with a woman, and found it tedious. I tried it with a man, but his fellatio was terrible. I hate to admit that I’ve become a cynic about sex, which is supposed to be a great experience in my life.”

               “So… you—“

               “I am not cynical with you, however. Don’t be concerned.”

               “Why are you telling me this?”

               “Because I don’t want you to be discouraged at my lack of sexual history.”

               “With…men?”

               “Yes.”

               John was thinking. Sherlock could see that in the way he pushed out his bottom lip.

               “Are you sure you want this… with me?”

               Sherlock moved over the couch to get close to John. “Don’t be an idiot, John.” And then he kissed him with more passion than a cynic could ever muster, unbuttoning John’s shirt and expertly unhooking his belt. John was not having that. He pushed Sherlock back to the couch, trapping him underneath, and kissed down the length of his body as he undressed Sherlock.

               “John, what are you doing?”

               “I’m upstaging that other guy you were with.”

               He had Sherlock in his hands then, giving a few skilled tugs to make him fully hard. Sherlock was vibrating at his touch, and John could not be more satisfied that he had provoked that response. He descended on Sherlock then, taking him all at once and pulling off suddenly, making Sherlock go mad.

               “You are a tease, John.”

               John smiled and went back to work. He licked from base to tip and swirled his tongue, Sherlock shuddering with each movement of Johns. John swallowed him fully, and pulled back in slow—maddeningly slow—movements. And then suddenly he was going faster, and Sherlock was clutching at the sofa to brace himself.

               “John, I think I’m about to… I think I’m—“

               John put all his effort into the last few strokes. Sherlock was rolling his hips into the orgasm, collapsing into the couch. Sherlock was panting hard, but John felt completely relaxed. He pulled Sherlock’s pants back over him, and crawled up onto him, pressing kisses to his throat.

               “John, you didn’t have to…when I was…you didn’t have to swa—“

               “I’m trying to outdo someone remember?” John smiled at him, and Sherlock pulled him closer, crushing their lips together with extreme urgency.

               “You are _amazing_ , you are _fantastic._ How did you _do_ that? Tell me how you did that.”

               “I'll never reveal my secrets “John said with a devious smile.

               “I suppose I’ll just have to learn through trial and error.“ Said Sherlock, looking at John pointedly.

               “I am a consenting test subject.” John said, and they laughed.

It was vastly annoying, but Sherlock had to leave almost as soon as he’d arrived. It would not do to be expelled from Eton when life there had finally become _interesting_. John had looked out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. He then turned back to Sherlock and said, “We’ve barely begun and I already hate our situation. I hate living behind closed doors.”

               “It’s a necessary evil.”

               John thought for a moment. “There’s a long weekend coming up. We could see each other in London. We wouldn’t have to hide.”        

               Sherlock smiled at him, “Precisely what I was going to propose.” He then kissed John a tentative goodbye and left, careful of his surroundings to not get caught. Sherlock was always leaving, and this aggravated John. The long weekend could not come fast enough.

*************************************************************************************

               For the first time in his life, Sherlock was behaving like a teenager. He thought he was in control of his hormones, but he was dead wrong.

               Sherlock had walked into John’s class the next morning with a soft smile on his face. It is always a pleasure to see ones lover, even if there was only a day’s separation. John was grinning at him, a blush blossoming on his cheeks, his eyes widening, pupils dominating irises. Sherlock was captivated by John’s whole expression, and he was suddenly very warm. He could feel his own face flush, so he gave John a short, warm smile, and sat down.

               John began to teach. Sherlock watched his mouth form words, and his tongue dart out every once in a while, licking his lips in that unconscious way he had. _I have been inside that mouth. That tongue can do more than it lets on._

Sherlock was very, very warm.

               It is a cruel twist of fate that mere hours after having a first and fantastic orgasm one should be forced to sit in the company of one’s lover and have to remain completely _platonic._ Sherlock tried to remember that he could not under any circumstance snog John in class, it was beyond against the rules. The forbidden body of John Watson was so incredibly alluring and he was just a few yards away, taunting Sherlock with his erratic tongue and the way he formed mundane words with his extraordinary mouth. It was all he could do not to run from the room and drag John with him.

                Nevertheless, he managed. The bell rang, and John was perched in front of his desk, waiting for Sherlock.

               “Is there anyone outside?” Sherlock asked, not looking away from John. John’s eyes swept around the room, and landed back on Sherlock. “Clear.” He said.

               Sherlock pressed a kiss to his mouth. “It is an awful feeling, being that close to you and not being able to do _anything._ ”

               “I have the same feeling. Did you notice how many times I stumbled over my words? How many times I dropped things I was holding?”

               Sherlock  smiled. “I love how nervous I can make you.”

               “Come to my flat later?” John’s voice was low and gravelly and so damn irresistible.

               “Definitely. I want to try out a few… things.”

               John smiled hugely, “Get to calculus before I rip your clothes off.”

               “Well now I really want to go to calculus.” Sherlock said sarcastically, kissed John once more, and left.

               Calculus was, per usual, dead boring. He spent the hour staring out the window. Chemistry was just as monotonous, and he gave no attention to what he was doing, thinking about John. _I think its love. How do I tell him._ His work lost all of the meager attention he was giving it, which is why he ended up in the nurse’s quarters, chemical burn turning his hands and forearms red.

               He had been there many times for other similar incidents, but never for infatuation induced chemical burn. Nurse Molly was furious at him. “How many times, Sherlock, have you come here? When will you learn?”

               “Molly, please. As if you’ve never had an accident. I seem to recall you being very clumsy, especially in my presence.”

               Molly blushed a deep pink, but recovered and sarcastically retorted, “Well it’s always a _pleasure_ to see you but honestly is there an inch of your arms that isn’t scar tissue?”

               “Molly, I’ve had chemical burn before and it’s never been this painful. And you’ve never dealt with chemical burn before. I think you may need some assistance.”

               “Fine I’ll get Sawyer—“ Molly turned to call over her shoulder, but Sherlock stopped her.

               “No, not Sarah. I mean an actual doctor. My English professor Mr. Watson was an army doctor. Call him.”

               “Fine.” She turned back to call into the next room. “Sarah? Can you page Mr. Watson for us?”

               A faint ‘sure’ sounded from the other room. Molly turned back and said. “This should be fun. Sarah’s got a crush on him.”

               “Oh really?”

               “Yup. It’s kind of precious actually. Sarah says he flirted with her once, she looked all starry eyed. ‘Office romance’ she’d said.”

 _No one but me gets to be starry eyed._ There was a strange feeling inside of Sherlock, like anger and yearning and… insecurity?

Sarah had emerged from the other room, and Sherlock knew that she was waiting for John to arrive. Sherlock was… jealous. This was new for him. Why should he be jealous of Sarah?

               _Because she can have a public relationship with John, and I can’t._

_I hate Sarah._

               Sherlock loathed to be in the presence of Sarah, and he glared at her, but she never noticed. John arrived then, not even looking at Sarah, which instantly improved Sherlock’s mood.

               “Sherlock, what did you _do?”_

“Small accident. No big deal. That’s Nurses Molly Hooper and Sarah Sawyer if you haven’t met them.” Sherlock did his best to remain casual, but he sort of sneered when he said Sarah’s name. No one noticed, maybe the derision was all in his head.

               John waved to them and said “Yeah we’ve all met.” And then sent them off for some treatment supplies. Sarah looked a little too overjoyed at John speaking to her directly.

Sherlock waited until they were in the other room. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but Nurse Sawyer has a bit of a crush on you.”            

               “What, really?”

               “Well don’t look so pleased about it!”

               “There’s been quite a few people showing interest in me lately and damn it I’m going to enjoy it.” John said with a smirk as he prodded at Sherlock’s wounds.

               John looked up and registered that Sherlock was glaring at him. Something clicked inside his head and he said with a small grin, “You’re jealous.”

               Sherlock huffed and looked away. “No I’m not. Sarah cannot compete with me.”

               “That’s true,” Sherlock looked back, surprised and happy at the same time. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.” John was smiling, obviously amused.

               “Stop smiling at me. This whole chemical burn business is your fault.”        

               “Oh really now?”

               “Yes. If you weren’t so god damn irresistible I would have paid more attention to what I was doing.” 

               “Adorable.”

               “Stop it.”

               “Make me.”

               “I would but we would need a bed and for my hands not to be uselessly injured.”

               John looked back at the reddened flesh. “Kind of puts a damper on tonight’s plans, doesn’t it?”

               “Unfortunately.”

               Molly and Sarah had returned then, arms full of medical supplies. John had smiled at them when they handed them over, and Sarah smiled back twice as warmly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

               “Here you are, Dr. Watson. As requested.” Sarah said, absolutely _smitten._

 _“_ Just Mr. Watson, please.” He held up some gauze. “Thanks."

               When the nurses had drifted off out of ear shot, Sherlock quietly told John “No more smiling at Sarah.”

               “Adorable.” John said through a smile.

               “Shut up.”

               John had just finished with the bandages when he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock’s angular face was unusually soft before he recomposed his expression into its usual dour. Sherlock was trying his best to force his thoughts into Johns mind. _Read my mind, damn it. I. Love. You._ John didn’t appear to receive the telekinetic message. Sherlock decided he would have to introduce the idea of love to John in subtext.

               “I’m coming to your flat anyway.” Sherlock needed more time for subtext, he needed more time for John. _With_ John.

               “Of course you are.”John said in calm exasperation, but he was smiling like an idiot.

******************************************************************************

               It had just turned five o’clock when Sherlock knocked on John’s door. He was much too early.

               John had quickly pulled him inside. “Sherlock what are you doing here this early? Someone could have seen!”

               “Not likely, I set a bench in the courtyard on fire as a distraction. Got any pain medication? My arms are killing me.”

               “Bathroom cupboard. You set a bench on fire?”

               “Mostly out of boredom, but the subterfuge it provided was convenient.” Sherlock leaned down and kissed John softly. He withdrew, and pressed their foreheads together.“Hello, John.”

“Sherlock.” John said with a smile.

               Sherlock departed for the bathroom, and John prepared tea. Sherlock emerged carrying John’s ibuprofen, looking disappointed. “Is this seriously all you have?”

               “Yes. Tea?”

               “Please.” Sherlock flopped down on the couch, wincing at the movement’s effect on his arms. John sat down next to him, teacups in hand, spilling a decent amount on himself.

               “Shit.” John said as he set the tea on the coffee table.

               “I didn’t know you were so clumsy, John. Now that’s adorable. Much more than my supposed jealousy.”

               “I highly disagree.” John said as he stripped off his shirt and headed towards his bedroom to get a new one. But Sherlock had risen to his feet, and turned John towards him. He was staring at Johns left shoulder. He reached out and traced the sunburst scar on the outermost edge of John’s collar bone. “This is where you were shot.”

               “Yes.”

               “There is no exit wound.”

               “No, it’s stuck in my clavicle.”

               “The bullet is still in there?” Sherlock said with a finger on the entry wound. _My love is broken._

 _“_ Yeah.” Sherlock looked into his eyes then, that soft expression returning, before leaning in and pressing a light kiss to Johns wound. He then straightened up and smiled, then sat back down. John didn’t quite know what to make of that, so he went to grab a new shirt.

               When John returned to the sitting room Sherlock was staring at him. He froze. “What?”

               “Tell me about Afghanistan.” _Look John. I’m asking you to share intimate details about your past with me. This means I care._

               “Oh—um—“ John was a bit caught off guard.

               “You don’t have to.”

               “No, I… I want to.” John smiled tentatively and sat down. He really did want to tell Sherlock about Afghanistan. He wanted to tell Sherlock about his entire life. He wanted Sherlock to _know_ him, because he hadn’t bothered letting anyone else know him. John did not want to be alone anymore.

               He began with hesitation, _where do I start?_ “I was a battlefield doctor, triage and all that. A captain too. My platoon and I never saw much action until this happened.” He gestured to his shoulder, and continued. “They’re all dead now. All except me.” He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want to talk about this? It’s not the happiest of subjects.”

               “Only if you want to.”

               John took a shallow breath and continued, “Right. So most of my time as a soldier was spent walking through the desert and working on my tan.” John laughed lightly.

               “How did you get out when your platoon was… attacked?”

               “Someone carried me out. I don’t know who he was.” John remembered the dream he had had where Sherlock was that unknown man, but he kept his dark thoughts at bay, focusing on the weight of the _alive_ Sherlock on his arm.

               “What happened to them?”

               “He died.” _And I watched it happen._

Sherlock nodded and sensed that John did not want to talk about Afghanistan anymore. “When did you get your teaching degree?”Sherlock took Johns hand in his. John liked the pressure.

               “I minored in teaching at university, majoring in pre-med of course. And then I went off to medical school and enlisted after graduation.”

               “Why didn’t you go work in a hospital after you left Afghanistan?” Sherlock was running his thumb over the back of Johns hand in soothing circles, prompting him to continue.

               “I did actually, a clinic, for about a month. It was really boring. My therapist urged me not to go back to triage, afraid of what anxiety attacks I might have, so I didn’t.”

               “I think you would have been fine working the emergency rooms. It would have suited you.”

               “What makes you say that?”

               _Because I love you and my opinion of you is fact._ Sherlock sighed internally, _I sound childish._ “Because you’re you, John. You’re calm in the face of danger. In fact, right now you’re risking your hard-earned job being here with me and you’re completely relaxed about it.”

John thought for a moment, and figured Sherlock was right. But he was wrong about one thing.  “I wouldn’t call my job hard-earned.”

               “How so?”

               “I only got a position here because I saved headmaster Grand’s nephew in Afghanistan. I _minored_ in teaching for Christ’s sake.”

               “I imagine you risked your life to save him. I wouldn’t say there was no effort on your part. Besides, you’re quite proficient in your subject, and you thoroughly enjoy what you do. You’re always smiling when you’re teaching, it’s really quite fun to be your student.”John looked at him then. He had that soft expression again, but it wasn’t going away. He couldn’t help himself, he leaned in and kissed him with quiet passion. Sherlock reached out to pull him closer, wincing at the pain in his arms.

               “Sorry.” John said.

               “No, don’t stop.” John curled into Sherlock more so he wouldn’t have to pull John in, and returned to the slow snogging. Sherlock rested his arms around John delicately to keep from being in pain. Their movements evolved slowly, but eventually Sherlock’s arms were jostled and he winced again.

               “Okay, no more of that. Ill not have you in pain if I can help it.”     

               Sherlock smiled. “What will we do instead?”

               “Watch telly?”

               Sherlock frowned. “Dull.” John smiled. “You’ll survive” he said, reaching for the remote.

               They settled into watching a halfway intelligent documentary about space. Sherlock was leaning on John more than he was sitting on the couch. It was comforting having Sherlock there, tucked up against him and sleepy from the pain medication. John liked the silence, he liked that there was no need to talk. Nevertheless, he had a question for Sherlock.

               “Why did you want to know about Afghanistan?”

               “Because I want to know you.” Sherlock craned his neck up to look at John, and his face was soft again. John didn’t quite know what to respond with, so he kissed him instead. A few seconds later he pulled away smiling, “Let's not get carried away again.”

                “Drat.”

               John laughed.“Drat?”

               “Is that not a word?”

               “Yes but… _drat_ , wow. Are you sure that you were born in this century?”

               “Well I was technicallyborn last century. Our lives span two centuries and two millennia. I suppose it’s kind of fascinating.”

               “That’s true.” _Of course you would say that,_ John thought. John had just then noticed that he was running his fingers through Sherlock’s curly hair. He was pleased that he was touching Sherlock so intimately, and that Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, leaning against the pressure of John’s hand. They sat like that for a few minutes longer, until Sherlock broke the silence.

“What’s the time?”

               John checked his watch. “Uh, it’s just rung eight.” Sherlock sighed. “You have to go don’t you.”

               “Unfortunately.” Sherlock said as he stood up. One whole side of each John and Sherlock felt unnervingly colder.

                “You’re always leaving. I hate that.”

               “The long weekend isn’t too far away. London will be freeing.” Sherlock gave him a reassuring smile.

               “Yes, but that’s two weeks from now. What will we do until then?”

               Sherlock ducked down to taunt John with tender kisses. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of _something.”_

*************************************************************************************

               It was three days before Sherlock had stopped wincing at his arms movement. In John’s professional medical opinion, Sherlock’s hands were not finished healing. However, this particular reasoning was easy to ignore when said hands were sneaking their way around Johns back and cupping his arse.

               “A bit grabby today are we?” John said. _I love you and I will hold you however I wish,_ Sherlock thought.

               “Shut up, you like it.” John did. He smiled and went back to snogging Sherlock. And Sherlock was doing this _thing_ with his _tongue_ and it was all too much for John.

               “Sherlock—you remember—that trial—and error—thing?”

               “With the oral—“

               “Yes.”

               Sherlock smiled. He pulled John by his belt buckle to the bedroom, rarely disconnecting their mouths. He pushed John down on the bed and straddled him—still kissing—while he undid John’s shirt and pants. John was pushing off Sherlock’s clothes as well, and Sherlock let him. John was running his hands all over Sherlock in fevered attempts to memorize his body. _What granite master sculpted you?_

                Sherlock had him pinned then, working hard to please him. John expected there to be hesitation on Sherlock’s part, but instead Sherlock assailed John with precise and calculated—while still  wildly passionate—movements that had John gasping his name within four minutes.

               Sherlock laid down next to him. “I’ve never collected such good results in the first trial. This is a landmark for science.”

               “Wha—what…” John wasn’t quite coherent just yet. “No science… too much… brain—stuff.”Sherlock gave a subdued laugh. John continued, a bit more himself. “Not science. Art. How did you _do_ that?”

               “If  you’re not going to tell me how _you_ did it then I’m certainly not going to.”

               John pushed against the bed with shaky sex-sated legs and settled against Sherlock, kissing the angle made by his jaw line and the prominent muscle of his neck. Sherlock was not satisfied by that, and he pulled John in for a deeper kiss. John was breathless.

               “Christ, Sherlock. Give us a chance to breathe, huh?”

               “Sorry.” Sherlock said through a laugh.

               “You’re clearly not.” John smiled back, curling into Sherlock further.

               “Well neither are you.” Sherlock retorted, playing with the short fringe of John’s hair. _I love you. How do I say I love you?_

               “True.” They had enjoyed the pleasant silence for about two minutes when there was a knock on John’s door. Anxiety washed over John and washed away in a matter of seconds, but the tides kept coming in. “Who the hell could that possibly be? It’s almost midnight!” John was scrambling to dress himself, which wasn’t made any easier by Sherlock holding him by his shoulders.

               “John.” Sherlock was irritatingly calm. _We’re going to get caught you idiot._ John met his eyes, about to say exactly what he’d just been thinking, but Sherlock spoke first. “Calm down. I will hide. They will leave. We’ll be fine.”

               John took a deep breath. “Okay.” Sherlock dropped his hands. John composed himself and answered the door.

A smartly dressed man, older than John, sporting a three piece suit and an umbrella was looking quite out of place for the time of night. The man was staring at him in resigned contemplation.

               “Hello, Dr. Watson.”

               “Hi?”

               “Might I come in?”

               “Who are you?”

               “Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

               “Mycroft Hol— _Holmes?_ ”

               The man—Mycroft, John amended—strode past John calmly into the sitting room, looking at everything with resigned distaste. He stood with his legs crossed, resting on his umbrella.

               “So…you’re Sherlock’s…?”

               “Brother. But I did not come here to discuss _my_ relationship to Sherlock.” Mycroft took a shallow breath, “What is your connection with my brother?”

               John paused before answering the seemingly obvious question. “He’s my student.”

               “We both know that’s only half the truth.”

               “What are you talking about?”

               “Your and Sherlock’s _relationship_ , of course.”

               _How can anyone possibly know about that?_

“Do you plan to continue with Sherlock?”

               John decided that denying it was pointless. But he also didn’t think telling the brother of his lover that they were in fact shacking up was a good idea either. He settled on, “That’s really none of your business.” And John realized that it really wasn’t. Sherlock was an adult, he was above his family’s scrutiny.

               “I think precisely the opposite. Sherlock’s welfare is a… concern of mine. His relationship with you, I fear, is just another one of his schemes to break the rules. He does have a flair for the dramatic.”

               “Family trait?”

               Mycroft glared at him. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

               “You don’t seem very frightening.”

               Mycroft sighed and looked around the room. “It's so very interesting how connected our lives are, John. Did you know that you are housed in one of the buildings that I funded the construction of? You teach with books that I bought, in a classroom that I built. And now you and my dear brother. A troubling coincidence, I think.”   

               “What are you saying?”

               “I have invested in a great deal of clout at this school, as well as outside of it. I have the power to end it all for you John. Not just your job, no. _Everything_. I think it’s time for you to realize that this… _companionship_ you have with Sherlock is not worth gambling so very _much_.”

               “Are you _threatening_ me?”

               “If that’s how you perceive it… quite frankly I thought we were just chatting. Take a seat John, your leg must be hurting you.”

               John just stared at him. “I am fine, thanks.”

               “Interesting.”

               John hated himself for asking but he couldn’t help it, “What’s interesting?”

               Mycroft pulled a small notebook form his coat pocket. “You should really fire your therapist.” He looked down to the pages. “She has some things correct, trust issues, PTSD. All very obvious. But she’s ignored the blatantly obvious eating disorder, and then there’s your left hand.”

               “What about it?” John flexed his left hand unconsciously.

               “You, already know. The tremor. But the cause is quite different from what your therapist thinks. She _thinks_ that it’s the PTSD. Quite wrong. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly still.” Mycroft breathed in and tilted his chip up a bit. “You’re not haunted by the war, John. You _miss it_. And this illicit relationship is quite dangerous enough to suit you. A student who also happens to be the enemy of every criminal in London. How lucky for the danger seeking professor.”

               John gave a short huff of breath and a curt smile. “Are we done?”

               “You tell me.”

               John turned on his heels and walked back to the door and opened it, looking at Mycroft expectantly. Mycroft calmly exited, but gave John a few parting words. “You’re an adrenaline junkie, John. This whole affair with Sherlock is a fix, you must realize this.”

               “Hm. Really.” John said sarcastically.

               “Don’t scoff at me John.” He gave John a once over. “Tell me, when was the last time you used your cane? Or induced vomiting, even.”

               This threw John. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

               “Ask Sherlock.”

               “That’s enough, Mycroft.” John turned his head to see Sherlock appear in the doorway. Sherlock looked absolutely livid. John had never seen him like this.

Mycroft rose to his full height, and looked down at John. “Quite the addict.” On the cusp of those words Sherlock strode briskly to the door and slammed it in Mycroft’s resigned face. Sherlock leaned against the door as if to reinforce it against Mycroft’s entrance. He stared straight into Johns eyes, and John stared right back.

“Okay, you’ve got questions.”

“Are you all right?”

“Why?”

“Because you look utterly furious.”

Sherlock took a shallow breath. “Don’t worry about me. Questions?”

“Why did he ask about my cane? And the… other thing.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “He’s implying that the disuse of your cane and the halt in your disorder is directly related to the satisfaction of your addiction to adrenaline. I loathe to say it but Mycroft is right—you haven’t used your cane since we started. I can’t be sure about the bulimia, but I don’t think I’ve seen you starved looking lately.”

“Right.” John turned and walked to the kitchen. “Tea?”

Sherlock walked in half a second later. “That’s it? That’s all you wanted to ask?”

“Problem?” John was lifting boxes of tea out of the cupboard.

“Well I thought you would have asked how he knew so much about you, how he knew about us, why he thinks a three piece suit is attractive on him. All are common questions that arise from the unwanted appearance of Mycroft Holmes.”

John chuckled. “I am not worried about Mycroft. How he knows what he knows is probably because he has major influence over something, right?”

“Yes. He is practically the British government.”

John didn’t even blink. “And he’s all about reputation I’m assuming, so the last thing he will ever want to do is smear his own name. And if anyone else finds out I’m certain he’ll do everything he can to keep it all under wraps. As for the suit it does make him a little fat ‘round the middle doesn’t it?” John looked up at Sherlock, who was still incredulous.

“And you’re not even going to comment on all the psychobabble Mycroft was doing?”

“No. You’ve told me the same things before.”John returned his attention to the tea making.

“I have?”

“Yes. Just three days ago you sat on that couch and told me that I would be good under stress and that I was completely relaxed about risking my job to be with you. You just said it in more endearing terms.”John took a breath. “Besides, I am much more concerned about you.”

“Why?”

John abandoned the tea altogether and turned fully to Sherlock. “Because when Mycroft was threatening me he used my job and my life against me, but he didn’t use _you_. He didn’t think that I care enough about you to consider the danger our relationship poses to your academic career. He also never threatened you with the possibility that _I_ could lose my job, because he didn’t think that _you_ cared, either. I would hate for my own brother to think me uncaring, so I’m sure that somewhere under your calm indifference you are a little hurt. And I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“John…” Sherlock didn’t know what to say, so he deflected. “How do you know that I care?” Not quite deflection, as he’d just admitted to caring.

“Because you want to know me, Sherlock.”

At John’s words, all the residual tension in Sherlock’s eyes faded. He looked… _relieved._ Sherlock pulled John by his hands to get closer, planted a small, tender kiss on John’s mouth, and sighed.

“I am glad that you care. I am glad that you know that _I_ care.”

“Good.”

 _I care,_ Sherlock thought _. It’s not as good as ‘I love you’, but it’s a start._


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had just finished his last class and was trudging back to his dormitory to sulk, because John had faculty meetings and papers to grade and no time for Sherlock that day. One little kiss before Sherlock left his classroom was not enough to satisfy his daily dose of John. John had been understanding, of course, and voiced his own disappointment, _of course._ Because that’s what John _did,_ he _empathized_ because he was just so _compassionate._ And it _annoyed_ Sherlock, because John still didn’t know how Sherlock felt and it was driving Sherlock absolutely mad. He thought John might not have complete control of his sensory functions because how could it not be blatantly obvious that Sherlock was absurdly in love?

               _Love._ That’s an interesting subject. It was just so… _un-_ Sherlock. Sometimes Sherlock thought that it couldn’t possibly be what it was, that the unbound curiosity in Sherlock was just over reactive, wanting to explore the mind of John. John, who called him amazing instead of freak, and thought brilliant what others thought intrusive and rude. Sherlock would rationalize, and set back into his analytical ways, and then he would see John not long after and be irrational again. In love again.

               Lately, he was in a constant state of irrationality, and he thought that his concept of _rational_ was irrevocably warped. John was making him _needy._ Sherlock added that to the list of things to sulk about.

Still trudging and sulking, he rounded a corner, not even glancing at the black town car parked ominously in the alley between Sherlock’s dorm and another. _Go away, Mycroft._ Sherlock was determined not to get into the car, but he received a text that forced his hand, much to his chagrin.

               _Get in the car or I will tell Greg to never give you another case again._

_Who? -SH_

_Greg Lestrade?_

Sherlock did not reply. Sherlock got into the car, where Mycroft was waiting.

“How do you not know his first name?”

“How is it you can run a country when you’re constantly spying on me?”

               “Please. I occupy a minor position in the government.”

               Sherlock huffed. “What do you want?”

               “I thought that appealing to John first would be prudent, but it appears that he is just as stubborn as you are. Call it… _desperation_ , but now I’m asking you. Please, Sherlock. Don’t throw everything away for _John._ I cannot protect you from the repercussions of this affair. Find some other way to cause havoc so that when you get in trouble for blowing up a bathroom or something I can just pay your way out of it. The easy way.”

               “I’ve never blown up a bathroom. This isn’t an affair.” Sherlock was monotone.

               “What would you call it then? Surely not a relationship, as you both have never left Johns flat. Affair is the best term to describe it.”

               “Wrong.”

               Mycroft was resignedly glaring at Sherlock, and Sherlock was keeping lazy eye contact merely for the sake of portraying to Mycroft just how _bored_ he was of him.

 Mycroft spoke, in softer tones. “Sherlock. You’ve been doing so well this year. Don’t soil it with petty rebellions.”

               Sherlock huffed. _Idiot._ “Why do you think I am doing better this _particular_ year? Who for?”

               Mycroft thought for a moment. “ _John?”_

               “Yes.” Sherlock felt smug.

               “ _John_ is having this effect on you? That’s preposterous.”

               Sherlock sighed heavily.

Mycroft was still as incredulous as his careful façade would allow. “You’ve only known him for a month and already he has so much influence over you. Much more than I’ve cultivated and I’ve known you your entire life—oh.”

               “What?”

               “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Mycroft’s voice was soft.

               _Yes._ “That’s hardly any of your concern.”

               “And he doesn’t know, does he.”

               _No._ “There isn’t anything to know.”

               There was a long, still intake of breath from Mycroft before he spoke again, even _softer_.

               “Does he feel the same?”

               Sherlock shrugged. _I don’t know._ He looked down at his shoes.

               Mycroft was silent, which was so unusual for the annoying prat that Sherlock looked at him to make sure he hadn’t had a stroke or something. But Mycroft was alive and well and so very silent, and his expression was nothing shy of deep contemplation.

And then he decided to speak. “Just… be careful.”

Sherlock just stared at him. “ _What?”_

“Go before I change my mind about it.”

“I don’t need your _blessing.”_ Sherlock scoffed.

“Fine.” Sherlock opened the door, Mycroft spoke again. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned back halfway, eager to get out. But Mycroft’s next words had him looking the man dead in the eye “ _He needs to know.”_ Mycroft’s eyes were so full of concern that Sherlock could do nothing but nod, and leave. The car drove away as soon as Sherlock entered the dorm.

Mycroft is always irritating, but now he was downright _frustrating._ Sherlock told himself that he was angry because Mycroft had yet again intruded into his life. That Mycroft was being deliberately confusing by suddenly condoning a relationship that he had abhorred only two days ago. He told himself that the unwarranted concern in Mycroft’s eyes made him angry because it made him feel vulnerable, and he hated feeling vulnerable. But Sherlock could never successfully lie to himself, even though he had finesse when lying to others. He couldn’t deny that the real reason that his hatred for Mycroft increased was because he had pointed out something that Sherlock himself didn’t know: if John loved him back.

He thought it through. Possibility number one, John loved him. Sherlock liked that, _wanted_ that. And, if he ever got around to telling John how he felt, he would _need_ John to feel the same way. He suddenly realized why everyone was so desperate for another’s affections, because love is hard enough without being _alone_ in it. Which led him to possibility number two: John did not love him.

Sherlock was analytical enough about himself to see why John _not_ loving him was _probable._

               He was settling into his sulk when he got a text.

               _I know that I’m busy and all but we can still text you know._

Sherlock hated how happy that made him. _Codependent._ No, not _co_ dependent, because John might not feel the same. Sherlock had skipped a step, had already been thinking of John and himself as a _we_. Recent conversation prompts Sherlock—sadly— to revise to _Dependent._

               He sighed and texted back: _Do tell me which of my fellow classmates have the worst grammar. That’s always fun. –SH_

_Don’t be so sarcastic. I like you better when you’re smiling._

_Stop saying things like that before I ambush you in your classroom.-SH_

_I’m at my flat, actually._

_Well now I really can ambush you-SH_

_Trying to focus on work here._

Sherlock started typing _Why did you text if you wanted to work?_ But instead erased it and wrote: _Any chance you can put it off until tomorrow?-SH_

_So you can distract me then too? I’ll never get this done._

_Fair point.-SH_

A few minutes passed before Sherlock’s phone trilled again.

               _You spelled ‘influential’ wrong in your essay._

_Impossible.-SH_

_Yep. You spelled it ‘iwanttoripjohnsclothesoff’. Happy accident I suppose._

Sherlock’s brain immediately regrouped the smattering of seemingly random letters into separate words, and he got the joke.

_You are so childish John.-SH_

_Just trying to have a bit of fun. You know that was funny._

_Hilarious.-SH_       

               _Oh lighten up. We’ll see each other tomorrow and you can be ‘influential’._

_Sounds like a plan.-SH_

               The next day, as promised via text, John was prepared to see Sherlock after classes. But Sherlock was being petty and getting back at John for being busy the day before—he told John that he had homework.

               “I’m serious, I actually do have homework.” _Just not a lot of it._

               John pouted. “Fine. After bed checks, you better be knocking on my door.”

               Sherlock promised to do exactly that, so after his homework was finished—hardly challenging—he waited patiently for the housemaster to check on him. He dressed the part, pajamas and all, to give the impression that he was in for the night. And then finally, after _hours_ , the housemaster poked his head in and told him goodnight and Sherlock muttered a half hearted ‘sod off’ that to the untrained ear would sound like a mumbled ‘yes’. Finally, Sherlock was alone again and able to change clothes into something a little less bed-time and donned his coat, slipping out his dorm window undetected.

               John had pulled him inside and crushed their mouths together, wasting no time. Sex wise, they hadn’t done much, but John still craved Sherlock’s touch, even if it was as platonic as a handshake. John was content with however far Sherlock wanted to go, and he took relationships cues from Sherlock’s comfort level.

               Sherlock, however, wanted more.

               He had thought about this. Sex with john. Something he’s never done before, something he might enjoy. But it was more than satisfying his curiosity: he wanted to go further with John. He wanted to show John that he loved him, because telling him seemed so impossible. It didn’t matter if John didn’t love him; Sherlock was going to get his fill of John before John wizened up and stopped their late night meetings. Because why risk everything if Sherlock wasn’t willing to risk anything? So Sherlock had knocked on John’s door with an ulterior motive. And when John had enveloped Sherlock with fervent kisses, Sherlock had kissed him back with unadulterated passion. And that’s how far it went for a while, because Sherlock couldn’t quite frame the words that would get John into bed.

Johns fevered hands were pushing up Sherlock’s shirt, grazing his bare skin and raising gooseflesh. Sherlock remembered that he had motives.

John’s hands were rested around the middle of Sherlock’s back, against the skin. Sherlock pushed them _down_ , and held them there, kissing John a bit more urgently.

How do you tell your lover that you want more, sexually?

_“_ Sherlock, what are you…?”

“I want you, John.”

How do you breach a subject that you’ve never even considered?

“Sherlock, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But you’ve never—“

“I know.”

How can you possibly talk about it? Isn’t it better to just show it?

“We’ll go slowly.”

“John—“

“No. You want to go slow at first. Trust me.”

“I do.”

They _had_ talked about it, and it felt so normal. Such a passionate subject and they had sat close to one another and talked about it platonically. Thankfully, the conversation was short. And then John had kissed him, and held him close, and led him to the bedroom.

Led him to something new.

And it had started much like their other encounters: fevered connection at every possible point and flustered undoing of buttons and zippers.

But then it was different. New. They were slowing down. This seemed to be the opposite objective of sex, but it was necessary. John settled into the cradle of Sherlock’s body with more care, as if he were made of glass. It frustrated Sherlock, but it was necessary. It scared John, but it was necessary.

How can you be so eager for something you’ve just realized you wanted?

_“_ How is it that you’re the one who’s impatient? You should be the one who’s hesitant.”

“I trust you, John.”

“I know but…”

“Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop thinking.”

And John had held his face and kissed him. Trust or not, Sherlock had never done this before. _I’ve got to make this good for him._

How do you control yourself, when who you want is right there, wanting you more?

               He put care into his every movement, taking it slow so Sherlock could adjust. John tired to read Sherlock, to see what he wanted John to do before he did it. He didn’t want Sherlock to be overwhelmed. But Sherlock was always surprising John. After a few preliminary thrusts, Sherlock had kissed him hard and told him to do _more_. So he did. Sherlock held him tighter, so John kissed him harder. Sherlock was arching his hips, so John changed his rhythm. Sherlock scratched along Johns back as pleasure washed over him, his body shaping itself into a gorgeous arc, and John bit down lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder as his own release came. John didn’t want to crowd him, but Sherlock didn’t let him go. Instead he held him by his neck and shoulders and kissed him, repositioning John underneath him so he could kiss him harder. He had settled in John’s arms, audibly breathing and so very warm, nipping at John’s collarbone. John kissed the top of his curly head. All Sherlock could think to say were the trio of words he’d been mentally shouting at John for the past week.

               How do you _say_ ‘I love you’, when you’ve just _showed_ it?

               Sherlock almost said it then. Almost.

*************************************************************************************

               John had woken up before Sherlock. He was so happy that today was a day off, that they could stay in bed for as long as they liked. No one would check on them because everyone was sleeping in.

               Sherlock was lying on his stomach, his sleeping face turned towards John, one arm draped across his chest. John reached up an arm and ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls, dropping a kiss to his temple. Sherlock scrunched his face a little, but didn’t wake up. John rested his arm over Sherlock’s, taking his hand.

               _He trusts me._

               John didn’t want to think about it—he was just so happy, he didn’t want to spoil it—but he thought about it anyway. _I’ve just had sex with a student._ He wanted that thought to be _I’ve just had sex with Sherlock_. But it couldn’t. He couldn’t not think about how he’s broken policy, that he could irrefutably be fired for what he’d just done. He wondered if it was all worth it: _would I rather lose my job, or lose Sherlock?_

John hated himself, because he didn’t know. He hated that he could possibly choose his job over Sherlock, when Sherlock had clearly chosen John. Sherlock trusted John, let John have something that he could only give once. John remembered when he had let someone as close as Sherlock had let him, when he had fancied himself in love. Something clicked for John then, because his next thought was _Oh god, is Sherlock in love with me?_

_Am I in love with Sherlock?_

John really hated himself. Because he had no fucking clue, about anything. He had slept with Sherlock—the possibly _in love_ Sherlock—without considering any repercussions beyond Eton law. He felt like he was taking advantage of Sherlock. _This isn’t fair to him._ _Should I stop this?_

               John looked down to Sherlock’s sleeping form. _I can’t hurt him._ It was selfish of him, he shouldn’t string him along, but John decided that he would stay with Sherlock for as long as Sherlock wanted him. To make Sherlock happy, but also to allow himself time to figure out if he shared Sherlock’s affections.

               John was still puzzling it all over when Sherlock finally woke up. Sherlock wasted no time, dropping lazy morning kisses to John’s throat.  John sank into the pillows more, and Sherlock shifted over him, connecting their mouths with slow kisses that evolved into heated and passionate. _I’ve got to stop this I need to talk to him._

               John pulled away to breathe. “Good morning, Sherlock.”

               “You have no idea.” Sherlock said, smiling.

               “I have _some_ idea.” _Liar. You have no fucking clue._

               Sherlock just shook his head and flipped them over, positioning John on top of him. John was kissing up Sherlock’s neck and back to his lips. _Talking can wait._

Sherlock’s hands decided to explore, stopping at Johns pajamas.

               “When did you put these on?”

               “Late night bathroom break—you were asleep.” John recaptured his mouth.

               Sherlock pulled their mouths apart. “ _Why_ did you put them on?”

               “Because I am _modest,_ unlike a certain stark naked man in my bed.” John put their mouths back together.                 

Sherlock was pushing off Johns pajamas, but not having any luck. “These are so _tedious.”_ It was obvious what Sherlock’s objective was.

“Sherlock we are not having sex again, not yet.”

“What? Why?” There was a note of alarm in Sherlock’s voice.

“You need to give your body a chance to get used to it.” A convenient excuse, but John needed to talk things out before they went any further.

“How can I get used to something that’s only happened once. The phrase implies a repeat action.”

               John pecked him lightly on the mouth. “Just trust me.” _No no no why did I say that I have no right to ask him to trust me._

               But Sherlock did trust him. And Sherlock said “Fine.” Sherlock then pulled John back down to him, kissing him in such a way that made it very hard for John to postpone sex.

               “You are so _persistent.”_

_“_ Please tell me that you’re giving in.”

               John had moved down the length of Sherlock’s body, pressing kisses to his torso. “Maybe.” After John had kissed the hollow of Sherlock’s navel, he suddenly leapt up, and walked towards the door, pausing to turn back and say, “Maybe not.” He smiled devilishly and exited the room. _Why do I keep doing that?_

               “You are a _tease_ John!” Sherlock called after him, but John only laughed. And then he hated himself for laughing, because he _was_ a tease. He couldn’t help but think that he was just leading Sherlock on.

John was rooting through the fridge when Sherlock emerged. He plopped down on the wooden bar stool and winced slightly. “Okay, you may have been right.” He said.

“Told you.”

“Don’t sound so smug.”

John chuckled at a carton of milk. He shut the fridge having taken nothing, and stood in front of Sherlock, leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth. “I like having you here in the morning.” _I am a selfish prick._ “It's nice waking up next to you.”

“Good. I plan on more mornings with you.” He rested his arms around John’s shoulders.

“And nights?” John breathed against his skin, causing gooseflesh to appear.

“Definitely.” Sherlock was about to pull John back in, but John finally decided that it was time to talk, even though he _really_ didn’t want to.

“Sherlock, stop for a second.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

_I need to know that you want this, so that I can want this._

Sherlock looked confused. _He’s never had a relationship talk. Oh, this isn’t going to be good._

John steeled himself. “I’m afraid I may have acted too quickly when you… suggested that we… last night.” _I sound illiterate._ “I feel like I may have taken advantage of you.” John forced himself to look directly into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was nonplussed.

“That’s absurd.”

“Well we never actually talked about our relationship. I said I wanted you, and you said okay and that was it. Then last night you said you wanted _more_ and I said okay and we never really stopped to consider what all of that meant.” John took a breath. “You’ve never done this before Sherlock. How do you know that this—that _I_ am what you want?”

“John. I do not regret last night. Do you?”

“No. and I think that it is incredibly selfish of me that I don’t.”

“Forget about selfishness, John. _I_ wanted for us to go farther.”

“I know but…” John sat down. “You’re so young, Sherlock. It doesn’t seem like it sometimes, so I overestimate you. I keep thinking that you’re twenty eight like me and that its completely fine to move fast. But it isn’t, because you’ve never done this before, and you should… lose your virginity to someone that matters.” John rushed the last few words. Despite being a grown man the word virginity still enacted a giddy, immature feeling inside of him.

Sherlock was apparently above immaturity, unfazed as he spoke. “John. You _do_ matter. I woke up this morning and I was just so happy, I don’t think that I’ve ever been this happy. It’s not _normal_ for me to be that happy because of human contact.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Sherlock stood up and leaned on Johns shoulders, encasing him in his arms. “I think that means I want a complete relationship with you.” He fixed John with probing eyes, but managed a soft expression at the same time. “Do you want one with me?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“Good.” Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. “I think that makes you my boyfriend, but that sounds juvenile.”

“We’ll work on the terminology.” John said with a smile.

Sherlock pulled him in for deeper kisses, and John was so very pleased that he had nothing to worry about. Except, _maybe_ , if Sherlock was in love with him, because John still had no clue if Sherlock was or if John shared the sentiment.

Sherlock, however, was ecstatic. _Boyfriend_ —despite its flippant connotations—was a sturdy ground for Sherlock to rely on, a catalyst to the _I love you_ that Sherlock has been struggling with. He smiled around Johns lips, pleased at the domesticity, that he was capable of such intimate things. But John had _really_ kissed him then, and Sherlock could not help his train of thought.

“John—have you ever—been the—oh, how do I phrase this?” John pulled away and looked at Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock continued. “The… submissive one?”

 John nodded, one eyebrow still raised in curiosity. And then Sherlock made everything clear by dropping his arms to rest his hands in Johns back pockets, pulling him closer to ravage his mouth.

John was going to be practical this time around, “Are we moving too fast?”

“For the ordinary, _boring_ people it’s fast. _I_ am not boring, John, and—“ Sherlock nibbled at John’s earlobe while he growled into his ear, “— _neither are you.”_ Sherlock reclaimed his mouth in more ravage kisses.

John pulled away for one small second to say, “Bedroom. Now.”

_Maybe Sherlock loves me, maybe I love him, I don’t know._ It needed more thought, but John couldn’t focus on the _maybe_ when Sherlock was right there, doing _decisive_ things with his tongue.

               The second time around with Sherlock was obviously different with the role reversals, but it was also familiar, and then unfamiliar all at once. Sherlock had done this before, sort of. Different gender, different organ, a different method. John had done this before, but with someone who knew exactly where to go. So Sherlock needed a little guidance, not much, and then he was moving over John with precise actions. Sherlock was a very quick learner. Sherlock was _good_. Sometimes he slipped up, did something wild that he probably hadn’t intended to do, and John had never seen anything sexier than Sherlock when he lost control. To put his brain on mute and let his body and John’s body act out their basic desires.

               It took just a little more time, but for the second time in twelve hours, they collapsed into each other, panting and kissing and sighing contentedly.

               Sherlock spoke first. “I am never leaving this apartment again.”

               John kissed the dip in his collarbone. “Good.”

               For the second time in twelve hours, Sherlock was on the precipice of _almost._

John was preoccupied with _maybe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ill just leave this here, run screaming into the recesses of existence, make odd seal/pterodactyl noises.  
> that said, i welcome feedback, spellcheck, the like.
> 
> ive been fussing over this chapter, and the one after it, and ive finally decided that the direction im going in is a good one. the finer points have solidified themselves in my mind and now i just need to dole out the details.
> 
> pleasepleaseplease tell me what you thought with comments and kudos, an anonymous muffin basket in the mail, smoke signals, interstellar telepathic communication, whatever. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its short i know. this particular chapter fit into the story, just not into any other chapters. so it stands alone like the proverbial cheese. i could call it an interlude i guess?  
> its been a while since i posted for this story, and i apologize. i will try to regulate my postings i promise!

A small, dark, circular bruise rested on the edge of John’s Adam’s apple. Sherlock ghosted his fingers across it.

               “I don’t remember doing that.”

               “Hm?”

               “It appears that I’ve given you a love bite.”

               “Hmm.”

               John’s entire body was slack, his eyes drooping. His breathing was calm, his pulse was a heavy thud in his veins. Sherlock could feel each _thump_ of John’s heart through his sternum. His chin rested in the dip of John’s pectorals, his upper torso making contact with Johns lower, the rest of his body at an angle. Feet mostly off the edge of the bed.

               “How do I not remember doing something? I think I should remember _that_.”

               “You might have been caught up in other things.” John cocked an eye open. He had that _expression_ on his face again.

               “You’re doing it again.”

               John traced a few fingers through Sherlock’s unruly curls, admiring. “Doing what?”

               “Making that face.”

               “I make a face after sex?”

               “It's not exclusive. You do it all the time, mostly when you think I’m not looking, but when I am looking its more intense.”

               John shimmied down into the pillows and maneuvered Sherlock onto his back, hovering over him to plant a light kiss to his mouth. “Explain to me this face that I am making.”

               “Well,” Sherlock traced the indentation of John’s neck muscle. “It's like you’re trying to look _into_ me, John. Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

               “I am trying to figure something out.”

               “And that would be?”

               John wanted to say _I’m trying to determine if you’re in love with me._ But he didn’t. Instead, John gave a saccharine half grin and said, “Tell you about it later.” He then forbade any further talking by claiming Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

Oh, how John could stop his train of thought so easily. John was doing very suggestive things with his tongue, and his hands, but perhaps the most suggestive thing was the budding erection pressing into Sherlock’s thigh.

“Again, John? Really?”

“It’s a compliment of sorts.” John had ceased all movement, and his exceptionally blue eyes were boring into Sherlock’s own currently grey ones, looking _into_ him again. Sherlock wanted to ask him about his facial expression again, but John was smiling, and Sherlock wanted to taste that smile more than he wanted anything. Maybe even more than air. Sherlock had barely thought how absurd it was to want something more than air when John was back to work, being so very seductive.

“You know—“ John moved to Sherlock’s neck so he could speak. “—I think I’ve gotten better at this.”

“Mhmm. Yes.” Was all John said.

John had by then straddled Sherlock’s abdomen, arched over his body. Sherlock’s hands were running along Johns thighs and up along the sides of his torso. His light touch inflicted gooseflesh to rise on John’s skin. John shuddered.

“Too good, maybe.” John breathed. Sherlock chuckled. His eyes closed for a brief second while he laughed, and when they opened there was fire there, just underneath the cool greenish grey. Sherlock used his leg to flip them over. John had barely registered that he was now facing the ceiling instead of the bed before Sherlock was kissing a trail down his neck, his chest, the sensitive plane of his stomach. John was moaning unabashed, _how is he this good?_

“You  know, I think you lied about your sexual history. You’re much too good at this.”

Sherlock was hovering right over where John wanted him. His breath was tickling the soft patch of hair there and all John could think was _if he would just tilt his head down_ …

“Its science, John. Biology, observation and response.” He rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly, but then the fever flashed over his expression again and just then he was doing awfully tortuously _fantastic_ things with his tongue.

All John managed to say was a gruff, “Science. Good.”, before he was crashing through a _very_ good orgasm. Fantastic, actually.

*************************************************************************************

Sherlock was unaware how arousing it was for John to wear a turtleneck. It wasn’t just that John looked so very appealing in it—the fabric loose around his middle but clinging ever so seductively to his chest and neck, the deep black paling his skin, the blue of his eyes screaming against white—no, it was that Sherlock knew exactly _why_ John _had_ to wear a turtleneck. Because Sherlock had marked his neck in the throes of passion, the severity of said passion Sherlock did not know he possessed.

It was so very sexy, that Sherlock had marked him as his own. John seemed to be in an eternal blush while he wore his black, high necked, knitted and purled and _tight_ jumper of seduction.

John was so very distracting.

Sherlock gripped his desk a little harder when John bent down to pick up a dropped pen, bit his lip rougher than he intended when John smiled at him, flushed and squirmed just too much when John’s scandalous tongue darted out to run across his teeth. Suddenly teeth were so very sexy, and Sherlock recalled their shared orgasms, discovering that John tended to bite down with just enough pressure while pleasure shivered up and down his spine. John liked to bite. Sherlock was a little surprised to find that he _liked_ being bitten. Sherlock raised a hand to his shoulder—where John had bitten just last night—and though there was no pain, he could feel the pressure there, where John had left a mark of his own.

John was just as possessive as Sherlock was. John was _his_ boyfriend, as Sherlock was Johns _. His. Claimed._

The bell rang, and Sherlock jumped in his seat. No one noticed, not even John, who was erasing the board with his back to Sherlock. His arm stretched high above his head, the already tight in the shoulder fabric straining against the pull, highlighting the softened-yet-defined arch of johns shoulder. The class had already filed out and no one noticed Sherlock close the door behind them. John was still erasing, and Sherlock was thankful of the timing, because it allowed him to snake his arms round John’s middle, hugging him from behind, pressing light kisses to the nape of his neck. Johns still extended arm dropped to Sherlock’s, his thumb drawing idle circles on Sherlock’s wrist. His head fell back against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock took the opportunity to pull the neck of John’s sweater down, revealing the small bruise to the whiteboard. Sherlock touched right where he knew the purple circle was. John vibrated at the touch, a small moan escaped him, and Sherlock loved that sound. Loved John.

_Now. NOW NOW NOW. Say it NOW!_

Sherlock could say it now, couldn’t he? Is this not the perfect time,  John wrapped up in his arms and ever so content? Sherlock would get other chances to say it, but now seemed so perfect! All at once he felt as if he had endless time to pour his heart out and yet no time at all. Sherlock was frozen. If he stayed still the moment would last as long as he needed and wouldn’t fleet away in a moment’s notice. Sherlock needed time to think damn it, _is this the right time?_

John could sense the stillness of Sherlock just as Sherlock stilled against him. John turned in his arms, so very close and not making any attempt to pull back, though surely Sherlock’s arms were uncomfortably rigid at the moment. John was doing that thing with his eyes again, the probing-into-Sherlock stare that he adopted every now and then. Now it was unwavering, and Sherlock felt splayed open and dissected. But there was still confusion in the set of John’s mouth, so he hadn’t figured it out yet.

“I love you.” Sherlock said, his eyes widening because he had not meant to do that.

_Oh, no._

So many things Sherlock did in the presence of John that he had not meant to do, a love bite precluding to an ‘I love you’.

Johns eyes were no longer probing, the set of his mouth no longer of confusion. _Oh. He’s figured it out. What did I say in the last second that made up his mind? Oh. ‘I love you’._

_This is what he was trying to decipher? If I’m in love with him?_

_Well, now he has conclusive proof._

Sherlock extracted himself  from John and closed his eyes. He could feel the frantic gesture of his hands as he said, “Sorry… um—I didn’t. Well.” He opened his eyes, and John’s eyes, no, his whole damn _face_ was soft. _Happy? Pleased? Wait, no, concerned?_ There was a sort of identical curve to John’s eyebrows and a delicate purse of his mouth. Sherlock could read clearly on Johns face what he was thinking: _oh, Sherlock. Oh, no._

_Pity?_

Sherlock did not know what to do. John spoke. “Sherlock, would you mind being late to class?”

Auto-pilot response. “Why?”

“We need to talk.”

Of the few pop culture norms Sherlock was aware of, this was one of them. “Isn’t that the cliché break up line?” Sherlock was not a fan of how sweaty his palms became.

“It is, but not in this case. The last thing I want is to not be with you.”

“O… kay?” _I sound so unsure, god I hate that._

“You sound unsure, and I know you hate that, so I’m just going to dive right into this.” John knew him too well, Sherlock both loved and hated it. John took a very deep breath. “If I could return your sentiments I would, but I can’t, because I don’t know if I do yet.” As an afterthought, John added “Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good.” John looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes. “I understand if you don’t want to be around me. I am essentially rejecting you.”

“John. I do not need for you to return my feelings to validate them.”

“But it would be nice if I did.”

“I can’t deny that.”

“So… we just go back to normal?”

“If you’d like.”

“I would actually.”

“Good.” Sherlock rushed back into John’s arms then, John thankfully returning the hug. Sherlock planted a kiss at the corner of John’s mouth and John turned,  thankfully searching for more. Sherlock kissed him, and thankfully, John kissed back.

“I won’t say it again. Not until you do.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock left the room after one last chaste kiss, and Sherlock had to convince himself that it was only the last _for now_. He was successful, though he could not convince himself that things hadn't changed between them.

_Oh, this is the furthest from okay._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been over a month since i've posted last. life. what can i say. hopefully i haven't lost my readership but if any have stuck around i have a fervent hope that you enjoy this chapter because i sure as hell enjoyed writing it!

Sherlock had his own key for practical reasons—what if he were to be waiting for John to answer his door and another staff member caught him?—but out of courtesy he knocked before unlocking the door and entering. John was halfway to his door (a kneejerk reaction to hearing a knock) but stilled when Sherlock appeared inside and closed the door behind him. In the middle of the room, John was displaced. He wore a somewhat shocked expression in his eyes but his mouth remained firm. Sherlock took off his coat.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“I said I would didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

A yard was their separation and it disturbed them both. By now, per usual, they were closer. Per usual, they were touching.

“Oh, honestly John. Stop being an idiot.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re not doing anything either.”

“If _I_ act I’m being too pushy with my affections and if _you_ do then you’re a selfish… player.” Sherlock’s nose crinkled as he ended his sentence.

“ _Player?”_

“I couldn’t produce another word.”

“You always have words.”

“I know. This is all Mycroft’s fault.” Sherlock flopped onto Johns couch as he said this, and John sat beside him.

“What does Mycroft have to do with any of this?”

“If he hadn’t made you acutely aware of your attraction to dangerous circumstances you would be able to label your feelings for me without guilt.”

“Guilt?” John’s eyebrow shot up, but lowered when realization came to him. “Am I with you for _you_ or am I for the danger, for the rule breaking.”

“Yes.”

“Well now that I know the specific reason why I don’t know I think I might be able to figure out if I do.”

“That circumvented way you just spoke is endearing and maddeningly annoying at the same time.”

John smiled, and laughed, and despite the fact that he was just described as maddeningly annoying, he pushed into Sherlock’s space and kissed him. And then he rethought himself.

“Oh, sorry. I um—“

“Did you just apologize for kissing me?”

“Yeah well, I shouldn’t really kissing you currently.”

“To spare my feelings?”

“Well, yes.”

“John. Do you actually think that I wouldn’t want you to kiss me _because_ I’m in love with you?”

“You said you wouldn’t say that until I did.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Well why would you want someone you're—you're in _love_ with to kiss you if they didn’t feel the same way?”

“Did you _want_ to kiss me?”

“Well obviously yes!”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. The eyebrow in question disappeared under the curls at his forehead. Johns tongue darted out in that compulsive tick he had, and a small involuntary smile turned up a corner of his mouth.

“Did you know that approximately eighty seven percent of the time you kiss me you lick your lips and smile first?”

“You made up that percentage.”

“I did not, but it is a fact that you were just thinking about kissing me, and an inference that you thought kissing me would be unwelcome. And yet,” Sherlock shifted on the cushion, looming over John. “Your pupils are dilated.”

“So?”

“If I kiss you right now, I won’t stop.”

“So, you want to have sex with me even though I—“ John waved a hand in the space between them.

“Especially because you—“ Sherlock mimicked the mannerism.

“Why?”

“Because none of it used to matter before I said anything about love. I’d like it not to matter again.”

“You want to have casual sex with me again. Not long ago you said you wanted a full relationship... This is a bit of a step backward.”

“Well the step forward didn’t really work either. Think of it as a hiatus.”

“I think… I can do that. Yeah. But not right now. It feels all… contractual.”

Sherlock leaned in dangerously close, “Are you sure, _Mr._ Watson?”

“If you’re trying to use the professor kink to get me into bed it’s not going to work.”

Sherlock shrugged and fell back into the couch. “Worth a try. I suppose we’ll just… watch a movie or something.”

“You know, some people actually like movies.”

“ _Boring_ people.”

“ _I_ like movies.”

“It’s a character flaw. I wouldn’t dwell on it.”

John smiled. “Prat.” He lifted himself off of the couch, leaned down to give Sherlock a light peck on the lips, and hunted for a decent movie among the bookshelf. “What do you want to watch?”

“You, undressing.”

“I meant a video.”

“A _video_ of you undressing then.”

John turned around and was greeted with the image of Sherlock just as he was a minute ago. Sitting, legs crossed, arm lazily draped over the sofa armrest, middle finger worrying the nail on his thumb… A completely non-sexual pose. But the expression he wore, that was another story.

“Don’t… don’t look at me like that.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Like how?”

“Like you’re imagining me nude.”

“But you’re doing the same thing.”

“Am not.” John indignantly turned back to the shelf housing his small collection of DVD’s.

“Oh, sure, show me your arse. Now my thoughts are completely platonic.”

John turned back around, randomly chosen movie in hand. He held it up to Sherlock. “If we watch this, the lights will be off and you won’t behave at all. Will you.”

“Not in the slightest.”

John sighed, and smiles. “Sod it.” He tossed the DVD onto the coffee table and plucked Sherlock’s hand off the armrest, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the bedroom.

“Are you sure, _Mr._ Watson?”

“Oh shut up.”

*************************************************************************************

“I had nothing to do with this I swear.”

John had just slipped into the backseat of a nondescript yet clearly expensive black sedan, which Sherlock had directed him toward through a discreet text message. Sherlock sat an arm’s length away, clearly wary of John’s reaction to the car.

“Where did the car come from?”

“Mycroft.”

“Ah.” John noticed a bottle of champagne cooling in ice. “We’ll have to thank him.”

“No need. He’s only doing this so I’ll solve a case for him.”

“Ah.”

The car started up, weaving through the smattering of road amongst the campus, eventually reaching the main road and then the highway. A rather meaningless conversation ensued, and John could practically see Sherlock force himself not to roll his eyes. John spared him the banal chattering and settled down into his seat, resting his head against the cushion and closing his eyes. Sherlock thumbed at his phone.

As John had been doing recently, in frequent and recurring spurs, he thought over his current status in his—relationship? It was all very odd for John. Academic impropriety aside, it had only been a few weeks. Not even a month, and already it’s ‘I love you’. But, it’s also ‘though for right now let’s just have sex until some deep inner workings of your feelings come to light’.

What Sherlock had said the night before had made perfect sense: nothing mattered before love was a factor. Nothing? Did that include times when their company in each other was just a hair above platonic? John thought over the handful of times they had refrained from each other’s bodies and just lived in companionship. He thought of the few days that Sherlock’s hands were bound by gauze and they were forced into nonphysical coexistence.   _Forced_ wasn’t quite the right word, it wasn’t as if Sherlock’s presence was unwanted if he wasn’t bringing John to orgasm—in fact, the mundane pastimes didn’t really feel like just _passing time_. Still, at that time they were still a bit fresh in the relationship and hadn’t fully dived into the spectrum of what sex could be for the two of them, so perhaps that was also a factor? Johns mind was getting a bit frazzled, even more so when he included the side of Sherlock he’d seen just once—when John had told him those few sparse details about Afghanistan. When Sherlock had seen the scar.

The scar. Once was all the attention Sherlock had paid to it, and then ignored it entirely. In all the times he had seen John sans shirt, his eyes did not stray to the twist of scar tissue, and he did not dote on it with love— as if it were a talisman to their connection. _If I love you in this particular spot then I will have fixed you, yes? Then you will love me for fixing you, and we can be two pristine and freshly painted figurines on a shelf, wasting away for the sake of our perfection._ Sherlock did not, and that was… refreshing.

John opened his eyes, and peered over the blurred line of his own nose at Sherlock, who was engrossed in his smart phone. John could _feel_ his expression softening. It was a small thing, Sherlock’s indifference to Johns most forefront flaw. It was endearing, yes, and how John wished that _that_ could be what decides it for him. But it can’t—one preference of John’s that Sherlock had intuitively complied to does not equal love.

John spoke. “I’ve had a… realization.”

“Hm?”

“You said nothing used to matter before you said—well, you know.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“You applied that to sex.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “So that we could continue to have sex and enjoy each other without having to think about… stuff.”

Sherlock nodded. And John continued. “Does ‘none of it’ apply to the um… domestics, I suppose.”

“The crap telly and the Indian food.”

“The conversations.”

“Afghanistan.”

John nodded. “You said you wanted to know me. You don’t say things like that and then dissolve it all into _just sex_.”

“John, you are brilliant. Capable of inspiring genius in others while the light merely flickers in your own mind.”

“…What?”

“Don’t you see? I want to know you and I’ve done a fair job of cataloging _you,_ but I’ve done it mostly on skill of deduction. A skill which you so rarely employ.”

“And?”

“You don’t know _me_ as much as I know _you._ Which is why you’re in a tailspin over lo—feelings.”

“I thought it was because I could possibly be attracted to the danger and not you?”

“That too.”

John bit his bottom lip and released it, revealing his bottom teeth in slight protrusion. His mouth parted, and his lips pushed out as he said “Shit.” He slumped in his seat a bit, and Sherlock continued to talk.

“This love thing might prove to be harder to solve than any case I’ve had. Quite refreshing, considering the last case I had—the last one you presented to me—was a complete cacophony of boredom.”

John seemed to be pulled back into the conversation by the random turn of talk. “What do you mean?”

“Honestly, how do you not notice juvenile pranks in your own home John? Your case was beyond dull.”

“Then why did you take it?”

“I was curious about the new professor.”

John thought this over for the shortest of seconds, and then gave a short laugh. “I’d say curiosity killed the cat but really it just got him shagged.”

“Thoroughly.” Was all Sherlock said, and they both dissolved into giggles.

*************************************************************************************

Eventually, John was stepping over the threshold of a surprisingly unlocked 221B Baker Street.

 “Where we met.” He said, smiling up at Sherlock, Sherlock smiled back.

“You are made of cheese.”

“What?”

“Is that not the saying?”

John thought for a moment. And laughed, “Cheesy. You mean I’m being cheesy.”

“I suppose that is what I meant.”

John reached up and kissed him. Lightly at first, but soon the kisses lengthened into a deeper snogging. Sherlock backed him into the couch, and John fell backwards with an ‘oomph’, Sherlock falling on top of him. It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s deft fingers found their way into John’s pants.

“I’m all for the sex.” John said, once Sherlock released his mouth from kissing.

Sherlock’s hand grazed John’s rapidly growing erection. “Obviously.”

“But I would like to continue with the other stuff, too. Despite what I said last night.”

“It's completely forgotten.” Sherlock’s cold hands were warming next to the soft skin of John’s belly.

“And you’re alright with this?”

Sherlock kissed a line up John’s neck, finally landing on his lips, eliciting a soft moan from him.

“Obviously.”

*************************************************************************************

At some point, they migrated to Sherlock’s bedroom.

It was silent for quite some time after their erratic breathing died down, John was content lying there, kissing Sherlock lazily, quietly, needless. No rush. The rush was over and the passion was dialed down—for now. Light snogging, sparse pillow talk. Interrupted by one solitary, loud noise of hunger from John’s stomach.

“Well that killed the mood.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Get dressed. I know a great Italian place around the corner.”

“You had me until ‘get dressed’.” John replied, but got up to redress anyway. He had to chase a trail of his clothes back to the sitting room, and Sherlock followed, doing the same, but a flash of red and blue lights lit up the apartment and distracted them both.

“There’s been a fourth.” Was all that Sherlock said, hastening to dress quicker. John pulled on his clothes fast as well, sensing that something was about to happen.

John had just pulled his jumper back over his head when a silver haired man bounded up the stairs and into the flat without preamble. He was still a bit young in the face, the grey in his hair was from stress and not old age. He cast a quizzical glance at John before Sherlock caught his attention by speaking.

“Where?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s different about this one?”

“They left a note. Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?” _Forensics?_ John thought. So, police then. _Ah, there it is._ The telltale bulge of a firearm that John had been trained to spot.

“Anderson.”

“He won’t work with me.”

“Well he won’t be your assistant!”

“I _need_ and assistant.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John for a second, before flitting back to the still nameless man. “Go. I’ll follow you in a cab.”

The silver haired man nodded curtly and left. “Who was that?” John asked, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He was at the window, looking down at the police cruiser. A devilish grin spread across his face and suddenly he was turning back into the room, leaping slightly into the air and musing, “ _Four_ serial suicides and now a note! Oh it’s Christmas.” Turning around with a dreamy and dazed sort of look in his eyes, John thought that he’d never seen Sherlock quite this brand of happy.

_Serial suicides?_ John thought. _Ah, detective work._ In the month and a half at Eton, John had managed to forget that Sherlock was an amateur detective when he wasn’t at school.

_Wait a minute, Christmas? He is much too happy about suicides._

“John, if you don’t mind, there’s a case on—finally something _fun_! Make yourself at home I’ll be back later…” Sherlock’s words died in volume as he dashed down the hall to his bedroom. He reemerged, shoving on a pair of gloves and exiting halfway through the door before turning on his heel to look directly at John.

“You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an army doctor.”

_“_ Yes.”

“Any good?”

_“Very_ good.”

“Seen a lot of gore?”

“You already know the answer to these questions.”

Sherlock’s mouth curved in the smallest, most mischievous smile when he said, “Want to see some more?”

*************************************************************************************

Within the first five minutes of arriving at the crime scene, John learned a few new things about Sherlock Holmes.

First, Sergeant Sally Donovan did not like Sherlock, nor did the forensics bloke—Andrews? The rat faced man with the nasally voice, whatever his name may be. And also, Sherlock returned their dislike.

Second, when prompted, Sherlock can cut people with his words as if they were knives. Of course John had already known this secondhand from Stamford, but John never fully appreciated the extent to which Sherlock could minimize people. Being called freak by Donovan and condescended by—Manders?—clearly pushed Sherlock’s buttons a little. It was immensely gratifying for John when Sherlock insinuated an extramarital affair between the two. He tried his best not to laugh, and managed a smirk.

Third, the only person Sherlock seemed to like at the scene besides John was the silver haired man—DI Lestrade, John was told.

“Who’s this?” Lestrade indicated John with a nod of his head.

“He’s with me.” Sherlock replied plaintively.

“Yes, but who is he?”

“I said he’s with me.”

Lestrade seemed a little perturbed at Johns presence, and John thought that he ought not to be there. The DI shrugged it off, and led Sherlock up into the building, John following warily behind. Inside was a rather imposing staircase that would have given John pause if he were still using his cane. Lestrade turned on the stairs and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder directly at John and said, “I know who _you_ are.” With the air of someone who’s just had a small epiphany. Sherlock brushed by him and continued upward, leaving John on the stairs.

“You’re the professor.”

“I am a professor, yes.”

“No, you’re _the_ professor.” The look on Johns face pretty much confirmed it for Lestrade, and he returned to his descent up the stairs. “Don’t be alarmed, I’m sworn to secrecy. Although I couldn’t quite believe it at first myself.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it’s _Sherlock_ for one.”

John didn’t quite know what to make of that, and instead of asking for clarification he merely held out a hand and introduced himself. “John Watson.”

Lestrade shook his hand in one short, determined shake. “Mycroft told me that you’re a doctor.”

“I am, yes.”

“Then why don’t you introduce yourself as one?”

John opened his mouth to answer—what he was going to say, he wasn’t quite sure—but Sherlock was apparently listening in on their conversation and answered for him. “Because talking about being a doctor means talking about Afghanistan, where he was almost killed and deemed unfit to perform surgery—in his mind that makes him no longer a doctor. Honestly, Lestrade, could Anderson muck up this crime scene any worse? And he tells _me_ not to contaminate it.”

John was instantly reminiscent of Sherlock in Johns flat when they first met, pacing through his sitting room to puzzle out how Johns possessions ended up outside. But there was something wholly different. This case was a great deal more morbid, for one. No, it was Sherlock’s expression. There was a sort of delight in his feature that John hadn’t seen before. Sherlock had told him his addiction to the puzzle, the need for the work. But this face that Sherlock wore—it wasn’t there when he was solving John’s case.

John remembered their conversation in the car—John’s case was _boring_. But murder; now _that_ was fun.

John made an addendum to his list of new things he’d learned about Sherlock: The only other person Sherlock liked at the crime scene besides John and Lestrade was the dead woman lying on the floor.

****

If someone were to ask John Watson how he ended up yet again in the presence of Mycroft Holmes, that same person would be hesitant to use a payphone or walk in the path of a CCTV camera. One minute, John was hunting for a cab that would not be produced, and the next he was sliding into a discreet black car. Mycroft had simply rung him up, on a random payphone John happened to walk by. “How did you know where I was?” was the question John had asked Mycroft on the line, and Mycroft’s answer came with a fair amount of static. “Cameras, John.”

Before the phone rang and Mycroft directed him towards the car, John had been in search of a cab to go in search of a restaurant because that is what Sherlock told him to do while he was off somewhere doing something—most likely relevant to the case, but John couldn’t really fathom what exactly. What John _could_ wrap his mind around were the grumblings of his stomach and the coldness of his fingers. He should probably have gone with Sherlock who was no doubt somewhere warm, maybe even in a cab. Truthfully, John had no time to follow Sherlock out and to wherever, because at the time the younger man was dashing out of the crime scene with only a shouted “Pink!” as his explanation.

John had walked out of the crime scene a minute after Sherlock had ran from it, into the path of Sally Donovan, who then proceeded to give some arsed up diatribe about the lack of friends the apparently _psychopath_ Sherlock Holmes. John had already reduced her opinion to less weight than dust purely because Sherlock had, so he didn’t let it bother him. Although, discounting someone’s thoughts based off _another_ person’s dislike of that someone wasn’t a habit John usually practiced, so maybe he shouldn’t write off what she’d said so quickly. He was _shagging_ the supposed psychopath—it wasn’t in his right to be biased but it was understandable.

And now, John was being contemplated by Mycroft Holmes. He wore a dark three piece suit and leaned heavily on his umbrella. He looked rather bored. John was rather irritated, and doubly hungry.

“This is clever and all but you could have just phoned me.”

“How’s my brother.”

“You could ask him that you know.”

“He won’t answer truthfully.”

“What am I doing here?”

Mycroft lifted the umbrella and gazed down its length. “You’re reporting to me the welfare of my brother.”

“ _Reporting?_ ”

“For a decent sum of money. Of course.”

“Why.”

“Because whether or not you are in love with _Sherlock_ is irrelevant to your usefulness in proximity.”

“O…kay. Creepy all-knowingness aside.” John pushed that thought away with a small sweep of his hand. “Why do you need to know things about Sherlock?”

“I worry about him.”

“Well that’s nice.”

“Don’t mock me, John. I have extreme purpose in knowing his day-to-day.”

“No.”

“No? I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“I wouldn’t even if you had.”

“Because you care about him.”

“Well, yes.”

“And his privacy is important and should be upheld despite the fact that doing so will harm him?”

“How could it possibly harm him.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly at John, and his mouth pursed into a thin line. “It appears that Sherlock has been giving you half truths about himself. It would be in both of your best interests if he were to… divulge a few things.” Mycroft began walking towards another car that pulled up roughly ten yards away, swinging his umbrella.

“Things like what… exactly?”

Mycroft tilted his head towards the ceiling, still facing and walking away from John as he spoke, “Ask him about Jim.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my writers block is cured and i got really cool boots for christmas im in such a good mood WARNING FOR SMEXY TIMES AND A SMIDGEN OF ANGST

“John get something to eat and meet me back at Baker Street.”

“Where are you going?”

“Serial killers are always hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake and _Houston we have a mistake!”_

“What mistake?”

“PINK!”

_This is so obvious HOW do these idiots not see it?_

_Pinkpinkpinkpinkpink her suitcase must be pink and it must be somewhere…_

Five minutes took Sherlock out the door and around the building once, scoping alleys and side streets that would be the killer’s logical next step: dispose of conspicuous case. He rounded the corner that brought him back to the front of the building. Maybe he could have John help him look for the case, cover more ground.

_Ah, there he is._

From the shadows, Sherlock watched as John strode calmly from the building, directly into the path of Sally Donovan. He figured he could wait to go to John until after he was done talking to that idiot woman.  Donovan, per usual, was talking louder than needed to make it seem as though what she says is more important than it is. Sherlock had long ago realized this of her, but it never ceased to annoy him. However, this time it gave him the unwanted advantage of hearing what she said to John.

“You’re not his friend. He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”

Sherlock couldn’t hear what John said. He could reasonably assume that John talked his way around saying ‘boyfriend’.

“He’s a psychopath.”

Well that was just untrue.

John had raised his voice just enough for Sherlock to be able to hear. “Is there a point to all of this?”

Sternly said. Unyielding. Annoyed. John was not swayed by her shit opinion. _Good._

“He isn’t the best company to keep.”

“You obviously haven’t kept his company long enough.”

Sally regarded him for a moment. “Who _are_ you?”

John smiled without humor. “A very good friend.”

“He doesn’t _have_ friends. You’ll come to hate him at some point.”

John openly grinned. And then deadpanned: “You’d like him too if you were shagging him.” He gave Sally one final parting grin and walked towards the main road. Sally was too shocked to respond.

Sherlock had a rather large smile on his face, and he contemplated the sky. _John Watson. You are a revel._ He swung his head back down and caught sight of an escape ladder. _I could get a better view of the area if I took it to the top…_

He glanced back to the retreating figure of John Watson. _Oh, let him eat._ Sherlock grasped a rung of the ladder and hoisted himself up. From the roof, Sherlock could see every plausible location to toss the pink lady’s case. _Trash bin, obviously. No. No. Maybe. There, probably. Or there._ Two locations. Quicker to go by rooftop and shimmy down a fire escape. One meter jump versus a twelve meter fall? _Easy._

Sherlock’s jump brought him closer to the main road, where he glimpsed John stepping into a phone booth. Moments later a black car pulled up and John got inside. _Dammit Mycroft._ Sherlock pulled off his gloves, the cold night air bit at his fingertips. He fired off a quick text ( _Stop annoying John. SH)_ and quickly replaced the warm leather gloves to his fingers. He located the roof ladder and slid down it, then proceeded in going round and around and annoyingly repetitive fire escape.

At the bottom, he received a text. _Don’t be petty. MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked over to the first plausible trash bin. He smiled when he caught a bit of pink buried under old papers.

It’s always fun to be right on the first try.

*****

Sherlock took a cab back to 221b. The woman driver gave him a funny look when he set the pink case in the seat. _Definitely conspicuous_ he thought, though he really didn’t need that obvious assumption validated. At home, he set the brightly colored case on a chair and contemplated its contents. Mostly lingerie, a plastic zip bag filled with toiletries brought from home, and a phone charger. No phone.

Everything fit into the story he’d already deduced.

Just in from Cardiff. (Home address confirmed by tag on suitcase.)

Hadn’t checked into a hotel yet. (Hair and makeup unkempt—contrasting her usual personal grooming. Also, toiletries are all from home, nothing with a hotel label.)

Adulterer. (Lingerie)

The story stops with the mobile phone. Works, is careful about her affairs, packed a phone charger. She has a mobile phone and she certainly brought it with her. It should be on her person but _isn’t_. Why would the killer care about a phone? Perhaps she tried to phone for help, maybe he took it from her, disposed of it…

Maybe he still has it.

Maybe she just lost it and it’s completely unrelated.

Sherlock closed the pink case and collapsed on the couch. He lit a cigarette but snuffed it out. _John wouldn’t approve_. _Where are those insufferable nicotine patches Mrs. Hudson forces on me—ah, there they are._

_Three should do it._

_Thinkthinkthinkthink._

The only plan that made sense required a cell phone, but his own number always had the chance of recognition. Johns would do.

_Come to Baker Street if convenient. SH_

Thirty seconds and Sherlock was already impatient. He was in the middle of typing _if inconvenient, come anyway SH_ but a text interrupted him.

_Want. Food._

_Don’t. Care._ Thought Sherlock.

_Could be dangerous SH_ is what he typed back instead.

**********  
John has the habit of doing very unexpected things, and once Sherlock finds out these things John does he instantly accepts them as John Watson-y and abhors his past self for failing to realize how very _John Watson_ all of these John Watson things are.

Like, for example, bringing a gun into 221b at the mere mention of _dangerous._

“I need you to send a text.”

“I was on the other side of London.”

“Well you were coming back here anyway.”

“Not until I’d gotten food.”

“The number on my desk.”

John sighed. John did not go to the desk. John looked out the window.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Mycroft.”

“Oh, he is so not important right now!”

“Yeah, well…” Whatever John was about to say died behind his teeth and he strode over to the desk to look at the number.

“Jennifer Wilson, that’s the pink—“

“Yes the dead woman I know now _enter the number.”_

_“_ Alright now what.”

“Send a text saying exactly this: what happened at Lauriston Gardens, I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland street, _please come.”_

“Okay, it’s done. Why did I do that?”

“Because,” began Sherlock. Johns phone buzzed in his hand and Sherlock grinned madly. “We’re going to catch a murderer.”

******  
“So, I’ve texted a murderer, and he’s panicking and… we’re going to meet him someplace?”

“Precisely.”

“And what are we going to do when we see him.”

“Apprehend him and call the police.”

“Good plan.”

“Brilliant isn’t it.” Sherlock said with heavy sarcasm. “Hungry?” Sherlock then tugged at Johns elbow just enough to steer him towards the closest restaurant and temporary stake out.

John ordered ravioli, Sherlock stared through the window.

“You’re different here.” John said to Sherlock.

“Really.” He wasn’t paying attention.

“Yeah.”

A few minutes passed. John chewed and waited.

“How so?”

There it is.

“I…you’ve got this way about you. Less restricted. I don’t know if it’s because we’re not in school but…”

“Restricted?” Sherlock’s pale eyes were now fully on John.

“You um, don’t have a filter on your words. A murder is fun. Two annoying people are shagging.”

“Annoying. You think Donovan and Anderson are annoying.”

“You don’t?”

“Oh no, they’re completely insufferable.” A pleased looking smile turned up the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. A thought seemed to cross his mind, and he spoke again. “How am I different at Eton?”

“You are… well, _nicer._ That’s rude to say. Sorry.”

“I’m not offended. It’s a valid observation.”

“The thing is though,” John started, shifting in his seat, “you’re only nice to _me._ Just the other day Stamford was telling me that you were given a demerit for mouthing off to Mrs. Chase.”

“Who?”

“Your chemistry teacher?”

“Oh, yes. The BDSM fetishist.”

“I didn’t need to know that.” John said, but his smirk was wry and obvious.

Sherlock shrugged and looked back out the window. John returned to his meal.

“They don’t… they aren’t fond of me at school.”

“Your teachers?”

“And classmates.”

“Oh.” John’s eyes fell for a moment, Sherlock was still looking across the street. “Well, I like you, anyhow.”

“That’s obvious.”

John supposed that, yes, it was rather obvious. He twitched a small grin, unseen by Sherlock, and stabbed another bite of his ravioli.

“Which do you prefer?”

“Which what?”

“Me. In London, or at Eton?” Sherlock’s face and torso were still directed at the window, but his eyes were on John.

“Here Diffidently.”

“Interesting.” He turned his eyes back to the street. “Perhaps because here we are uninhibited by the rules and can be as loud as we want in bed?”

John smiled. “That is a perk, but no. It just… you’re more real here, if that makes any sense. It’s like you’ve been putting up a front.” Something flashed across Sherlock’s expression—guilt, like he’d been found out—and John put two and two together. “That’s what you’ve been doing, hasn’t it. You’ve been pretending, because… people don’t like you at Eton.”

“Excellent observation.”

“You weren’t being you.”

“Apparently so.”

“Stop.”

Sherlock focused his pale gaze back on John. John stared him right back.

“Stop pretending, you don’t need to.”

“Most won’t agree with that statement.”

“Haven’t you been listening? I prefer you as yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes tightened, and he looked away again. _Stop that,_ John thought. “Give it time, you’ll hate me like the rest.” Only too late did Sherlock realize he’d parroted Sally’s words, and he berated himself internally.

“I could never hate you.”

A small smile played across Sherlock’s features, just as his eyes focused on something outside. The smile turned wan. “Not even when I cut your meal short to chase after a criminal?”

“What?”

“There’s a cab at 22 Northumberland. Don’t stare!”

“You’re staring.”

“We can’t both stare.”

Sherlock grabbed his coat and leapt up from his seat all at once, and in the next second was out of the door. John followed as quick as he could, grateful that Sherlock had decided to pause to put on his gloves and scarf, so that John could have his own time to shrug into his jacket. The cab began to roll forward, and Sherlock thought nothing of his surroundings as he started to chase after it, nearly being ran into by a passing car in the process. John followed behind. Sherlock muttered something about stop signs and left turn only, and then he was off down a side street. John ran after him, following him up onto rooftops and down escapes, halting only once when a jump across rooftops seemed to far—but Sherlock urged him forward so on he went. He caught sight of the cab that was clearly going left, but Sherlock told him to go right, and he thought that was the wrong thing to do until the next moment he was vaulting out of an alley and right into the path of the elusive car. John caught his breath while Sherlock quickly deduced that the passenger was Californian and could not be the killer, operating under the guise of an official badge.

When the cab drove away and John had his breath back, he said: “So, not the killer.”

“No.”

They glanced up the road and saw the Californian talking to an actual policeman and gesturing at them.

“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked as he took johns hand.

“Ready when you are.”

Sherlock guided him by hand, running all the way.

******

They ran right up to the door step of 221b, and once inside they hung their coats and collapsed against the wall, panting and laughing and looking quite simply like a pair of absolute idiots.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” Gasped John, holding his side.

Sherlock turned his face towards John and breathed out a gasping chuckle. “You invaded Afghanistan!”

“That wasn’t just me.”

Sherlock turned more fully towards him and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re a teacher shagging a student.”

“Yes I am.”

Sherlock tilted his head around to get more leverage and pushed John against the wall and kissed him,

“You brought a gun at the smallest mention of danger.”

“Of course you saw that.”

Sherlock nipped a small kiss. “Your life is ridiculous, you are ridiculous.”

“So are you.” John retorted, capturing Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss and deepening it, until they were both grasping at buttons and putting hands in delicate places.

“Oh for the love—get a room!”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to the staircase, where Sally stood with her arms folded and mouth turned down in a clear expression of distaste.

“Why are you in my house and telling me to get a room in my own house?” Sherlock pushed away from the wall and ascended the stairs. John cleared his throat and followed. Sally stared at him as he went by.

John smiled back.

Inside the flat, Lestrade lounged in a chair as police snooped through Sherlock’s things. “What the hell is all this?” Sherlock shouted. “A drugs bust.” Lestrade replied, cheekily.

“Drugs bust?” John wondered aloud. No one paid him any attention.

“Anderson, what are you doing here you’re not even on the drugs squad!”

“Oh I volunteered.” Anderson sneered from the kitchen.

The officers were not discreet in their search, and seemed fond of exclaiming things that they saw.

“Are these human eyes?”

“Why is the cutlery drawer full of dirt.”

“Oh—gross—wash your sheets after you do that!”

(John went very red at the last exclamation.)

“I have made it very clear to you Sherlock. You are allowed in as a consultant _only_ and you cannot go off on your own!”

“So, what, you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if we find something.”

“Seriously, a junkie, this guy? Have you met him?” John wondered aloud, again and this time Lestrade and Sherlock both looked to him. “You could probably search this flat all night and not find anything you could call recreational.”

Sherlock leaned in to murmur in John’s ear. “John you might want to shut up now.”

John turned is head to look at him.  Sherlock wore a very serious expression, and John was sure that at some point or another, Sherlock had been an addict. Mycroft’s warning form earlier flashed through John’s inner monologue: _It appears that Sherlock has been giving you half truths about himself_.

“No.” John said firmly.

“What?”

“You.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock spat his words.

“Who’s Jim?”

John had clearly caught Sherlock off guard for a moment when Sherlock seemed to falter, and without looking away from John he rolled up his cuff to reveal his forearm and the nicotine patch on said forearm. “I am clean. I don’t even smoke.”

John raised an eyebrow. “We’ll talk about it later.” Sherlock said. He then went on to pester the people poking through his book case. Lestrade was looking at John with his eyebrows knitted together, but looked away as soon as John caught sight of him.

“We found out who Rachel is.” Lestrade informed.

“Who is she?”

“She’s Jennifer Wilson’s dead daughter.”

“Are the deaths connected?”

“No. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter.”

Sherlock’s face contorted into a look of confusion. “Why? Why would she do that?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson asked. He side spoke to Sally. “Psychopath, I’m seeing it now.”

“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson, I’m a high functioning Sociopath. _Do_ your research. And Jennifer Wilson didn’t just think of her daughter as she died she _scratched_ it into the floor with her nails. _It would have hurt.”_

********

_I’m in the wrong fucking building._

Why would Sherlock do this to him? How could he think that John wouldn’t care if he went off somewhere with a serial killer? _How could he not know that I… that I…_

_I love him. Shit. When did that happen?_

“SHERLOCK!” his voice did not carry past the window. Sherlock couldn’t hear him.

_I need to save Sherlock. And then I need to tell him I love him and then I need to punch him in the face._

How fast could John make it out of the empty building he was in and into the one that housed Sherlock and the killer cabbie? Three minutes? What could happen in three minutes?

Sherlock could happen in three minutes. He could do something extremely stupid like _swallow that damn pill in his hand._ Why does Sherlock have a pill in his hand? Shit. Its poison, it’s the suicides. How does the cabbie make them take the pills? How could he _possibly_ make _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ take a pill that would kill him?

There was no time for three minutes.

_Who do you trust, even if you’ve just met him? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_

It was so fucking obvious _now_ of course, not when John could have prevented Sherlock from getting in that cab in the first place.

He removed the pistol from its place tucked between his belt and the small of his back. No hesitation. Squeeze the trigger, do not pull.

John hid in the shadows. The cabbie fell from the windows view but Sherlock ran right up to it, pill forgotten, and looked through the bullet hole. _Oh that’s really smart, Sherlock. Look towards the gunman after he’s just killed a man. Not an ounce of self preservation. I’ve just killed a man for this idiot._

_Oh shit I’ve just killed a man. I need to get out of here._

Sherlock turned away from the window and was standing—presumably—over the cabbie. John took his chance and bolted, running out the back door and hoping that the hand he put above his face protected him from being recognized by any possible cameras. He was panicking, for the first time in a long time he was absolutely tormented with anxiety. His legs carried him two streets away before he couldn’t find his breath. He ducked into an alley and squatted down against the wall. _Breathe damn it._ He took in long shaky breaths but his heart kept pounding and he was sweating harder than he should have been for the short distance he had run. _Fuck. Shit._ He couldn’t help it; he vomited into the grass in front of him. _God damn it!_ He closed his eyes. He focused hard on things to calm him down. He thought that focusing on Sherlock would calm him, but it only made him angrier. _How can I love that fucking asshole? Look at what he’s done to me!_ So he thought about things that made him happy, like teaching. But that led him back to Sherlock. This time, however, he thought about Sherlock during one of their late night meetings. Sherlock tracing circles into Johns shoulder blades after they’d had sex.

John wasn’t calm, but he wasn’t jumping out of his skin anymore. He rose stiffly, and forced himself to walk back to the two buildings, back to Sherlock. He strained himself not to run.

A few minutes later, he was back to where Sherlock was. Outside, on the other side of the police tape. Sherlock was sitting in an ambulance, an orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Hey you, it’s John right?” It was Sally Donavan.

“Yeah?”

“Thought you should know that your boyfriend almost killed himself tonight.”

_I already know. “_ What?” John feigned surprise.

“Yup. Sherlock could probably go into better detail—every annoying detail probably—but basically that cabbie was playing a game of chance. He gave his victims two identical pills in two identical bottles, but only one was poison. And Sherlock played the game willingly. To show that he could beat the cabbie at his own game.”

_He risked his life, to prove that he’s clever?_ John was absolutely furious.

“You really should stay away from him.”

“Hm.” John looked away from Sally, dismissing her.

Sherlock was talking to Lestrade, and John recognized that he was prattling off a list of facts, most likely about the murder that had just happened. But just then Sherlock looked over at John mid sentence, and John met his eyes briefly before looking away. Sherlock wasn’t prattling anymore; he was walking away from Lestrade, dropping the blanket from his shoulders and ducking under the police tape.

_Do I tell him that I just killed someone for him or do I tell him that I love him?_

Sherlock answered the questions in Johns head for him. “Good shot.”

_That’s what you say when I kill someone for you? Fuck it, I hate you._

“We need to get the powder off your fingers. I don’t suppose you’ll serve time for this but let’s avoid the court case.”

_Well aren’t you just so thoughtful._

“Are you alright?”

_Shit, he actually is thoughtful. Damn it._

“I’m just _fine._ ” John said through gritted teeth.

“Well you have just killed a man.”

“Mhmm. Yeah.” John turned on one heel and stormed off, hands balled into fists. Sherlock caught up to him quickly.

“Thank you for… um… that.” John just nodded.

They managed a cab, and rode back to 221B in silence. Sherlock dashed up the stairs the way he usually did, but John trudged behind him. Once inside the flat, he collapsed into the nearest chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed tight.

Sherlock’s voice was close. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“You’ve already asked me that.”

“And your answer was unsatisfactory.”

John dropped his hands and opened his eyes. Sherlock was sitting across from him, leaning back in his chair, completely at ease.

“What do you want from me Sherlock?”

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

John huffed. “Fine. Fine. You want to know what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that the killing I just did and the subsequent anxiety attack are all your fault and I’m not really in the mood to go into details and I’m not very fond of you right now. I just killed a man to save you while you were about to choke down some bloody poison so I’m really wondering if my efforts are just going to be wasted again when another killer comes around waving death in your face. How can you possibly be so casual about nearly killing yourself? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It wasn’t a casual decision.”

“What?”

“I thought of you as I was considering it. Of course I was. Before you, I would have taken that pill without another thought because yes, it would have proved how clever I am. But now, all I could think of is that I have something, someone, other than cleverness. And it’s just so irrational how much I need you John and I really hate how codependent I am because _I_ am not codependent. Sometimes, I really think that I hate you.”

“Well that’s nice to fucking know.”

“You make me irrational. I can’t think properly. I feel so mindless around you. I…hate you.”

“So self preservation is irrational now? Proving you’re smart by nearly killing yourself is _rational_?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Of course not. Stupid John doesn’t understand any of the brilliance of the genius Sherlock Holmes. You’re a complete arse, you know that? Always running around, announcing peoples secrets to the world, not a care for anyone else. Thinking that our relationship is in the way of being rational because apparently rational means swallowing some random pill a _killer_ gave you. I’m risking everything to be with you and you really couldn’t care less. Fuck it; hate me all you want, because I hate you too. You bloody psychopath.”

“I am a high functioning sociopath, get it right.” Sherlock rose from his chair in one quick movement. “And you don’t hate me.” Sherlock walked down the hallway, towards his bedroom.

John followed. “Oh, don’t I?”

“No. Every deduction, you think me a genius. It’s just the cute little quirk I have, and you just adore me when I calmly ruin someone’s day. You love the danger I attract, the adrenaline. You probably had a smile on your face as you killed that cabbie, because its war all over again. Welcome back to the war John! You love that you’re fucking a genius. And you love that it’s against the rules to fuck me at all. Admit it.”

John huffed and shook his head. “You’re wrong.” But he wasn’t. He was completely and utterly right. How can he see all of that and not see the panic John was in about possibly losing him? _How could he not see that I love him?_

Sherlock looked smug. “Am I?”

John marched up to Sherlock, fisted his hands in his shirt, and kissed him. _Hard._

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Make me.” Sherlock commanded, his hot breath playing at Johns parted lips. _God he makes me furious._

John crushed his lips back to Sherlock with a wild growl. He attempted to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt before he gave up and ripped it open, buttons falling to the floor. Sherlock had pulled off John’s t-shirt and had his hands in the waistband of John’s pajamas. John pushed him to the bed and worked off his trousers, letting his own be pushed down by Sherlock. There were feverish nips at each other’s bodies, a distraction from the undressing, but soon they both were completely naked, without John ever remembering how they had come to be that way. Sherlock had his legs wrapped around Johns hips, rolling them in agonizing arcs, and John was consumed with animalistic thoughts. _I need to be inside of him._

He lubed his fingers and inserted them into Sherlock, still feverishly bruising his mouth with kisses. Sherlock shuddered as John grazed over his prostrate, and John almost lost it at the sight of him, his neck all tensed up in a gorgeous curve.

He settled lower into Sherlock, and sank inside of him. “Fuck” he said, his voice up an octave. He was thrusting, hard, long, and fervent. Sherlock shuddered each time John probed at the cluster of nerves inside of him, tensing around John with torturous pressure.

“Christ, John.”

 John increased speed, and Sherlock rolled his hips more, his right arm around Johns back. John lifted his arm off, took Sherlock’s hand in his and placed their entwined fingers next to Sherlock’s head. Without Sherlock’s arms weight against his back, he was free to go faster, and he did. Sherlock was so tight and hot, and he was letting go, relaxing and tensing into the offbeat rhythm simultaneously. And then Sherlock was tense for a longer amount of time, and John knew that meant he was about to orgasm. Sherlock’s stomach was convulsing as he came, his neck tightening up, and John followed a second later.

John had just come down from his orgasm-high and was lying over Sherlock. They were panting. Their sex had never been so single minded and driven before. John felt wild.

“ _Don’t_ fucking _die_. I—“ He wanted the words to come out, but they didn’t and that was _so_ frustrating but—

Without missing a beat, Sherlock lifted up Johns head and kissed him softly.

“I know. Me too.”

“I love you.” John blurted out. Sherlock smirked an _almost_ smile.

“Well, good. Now you’ve said it properly.”

“Yes.” John smiled wide and sweet. “Yes I did.” 


End file.
